In the middle of a dense wood, on a narrow grass-plot, rose a small
earthwork, consisting of a rampart and ditch, behind which were some
huts and tents. Within the inclosed space, a crowd of persons who, by
their varied garments and by their arms, could at once be recognized
as brigands, were having their dinner, seated bareheaded around a
large cauldron. On the rampart, by the side of a small cannon, sat a
sentinel, with his legs crossed under him. He was sewing a patch upon a
certain part of his attire, handling his needle with a dexterity that
bespoke the experienced tailor, and every now and then raising his head
and glancing round on every side.
Although a certain ladle had passed from hand to hand several times, a
strange silence reigned among this crowd. The brigands finished their
dinner; one after another rose and said a prayer to God; some dispersed
among the huts, others strolled away into the wood or lay down to
sleep, according to the Russian habit.
The sentinel finished his work, shook his garment, gazed admiringly at
the patch, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat astride the cannon, and
began to sing a melancholy old song with all the power of his lungs.
At that moment the door of one of the huts opened, and an old woman in
a white cap, neatly and even pretentiously dressed, appeared upon the
threshold.
“Enough of that, Stepka,”[1] said she angrily. “The master is
sleeping, and yet you must make that frightful noise; you have neither
conscience nor pity.”
“I beg pardon, Petrovna,” replied Stepka. “I won’t do it any more. Let
our little father sleep on and get well.”
The old woman withdrew into the hut, and Stepka began to pace to and
fro upon the rampart.
Within the hut, from which the old woman had emerged, lay the wounded
Doubrovsky upon a cold bed behind a partition. Before him, upon a small
table, lay his pistols, and a sword hung near his head. The mud hut was
hung round and covered with rich carpets. In the corner was a lady’s
silver toilet and mirror. Doubrovsky held in his hand an open book, but
his eyes were closed, and the old woman, peeping at him from behind the
partition, could not tell whether he was asleep or only thinking.
Suddenly Doubrovsky started. In the fort there was a great commotion,
and Stepka came and thrust his head in through the window of the hut.
“Father Vladimir Andreivitch!” he cried; “our men are signalling--they
are on our track!”
Doubrovsky leaped from his bed, seized his arms and issued from the
hut. The brigands were noisily crowding together in the inclosure, but
on the appearance of their chief a deep silence reigned.
“Are all here?” asked Doubrovsky.
“All except the patrols,” was the reply.
“To your places!” cried Doubrovsky, and the brigands took up each his
appointed place.
At that moment, three of the patrols ran up to the gate of the fort.
Doubrovsky went to meet them.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The soldiers are in the wood,” was the reply; “they are surrounding
us.”
Doubrovsky ordered the gate to be locked, and then went himself to
examine the cannon. In the wood could be heard the sound of many
voices, every moment drawing nearer and nearer. The brigands waited in
silence. Suddenly three or four soldiers appeared from the wood, but
immediately fell back again, firing their guns as a signal to their
comrades.
“Prepare for battle!” cried Doubrovsky. There was a movement among the
brigands, then all was silent again.
Then was heard the noise of an approaching column; arms glittered
among the trees, and about a hundred and fifty soldiers dashed out of
the wood and rushed with a wild shout towards the rampart. Doubrovsky
applied the match to the cannon; the shot was successful--one soldier
had his head shot off, and two others were wounded. The troops were
thrown into confusion, but the officer in command rushed forward, the
soldiers followed him and jumped down into the ditch. The brigands
fired down at them with muskets and pistols, and then, with axes in
their hands, they began to defend the rampart, up which the infuriated
soldiers were now climbing, leaving twenty of their comrades wounded
in the ditch below. A hand to hand struggle began. The soldiers were
already upon the rampart, the brigands were beginning to give way;
but Doubrovsky advanced towards the officer in command, presented his
pistol at his breast, and fired. The officer fell backwards to the
ground. Several soldiers raised him in their arms and hastened to
carry him into the wood; the others, having lost their chief, stopped
fighting. The emboldened brigands took advantage of this moment of
hesitation, and surging forward, hurled their assailants back into
the ditch. The besiegers began to run; the brigands with fierce yells
started in pursuit of them. The victory was decisive. Doubrovsky,
trusting to the complete confusion of the enemy, stopped his followers
and shut himself up in the fortress, doubled the sentinels, forbade
anyone to absent himself, and ordered the wounded to be collected.
This last event drew the serious attention of the government to the
daring exploits of Doubrovsky. Information was obtained of his place
of retreat, and a detachment of soldiers was sent to take him, dead
or alive. Several of his band were captured, and from these it was
ascertained that Doubrovsky was no longer among them. A few days after
the battle that we have just described, he collected all his followers
and informed them that it was his intention to leave them for ever, and
advised them to change their mode of life:
“You have become rich under my command. Each of you has a passport with
which he will be able to make his way safely to some distant province,
where he can pass the rest of his life in ease and honest labour. But
you are all rascals, and probably do not wish to abandon your trade.”
After this speech he left them, taking with him only one of his
followers. Nobody knew what became of him. At first the truth of this
testimony was doubted, for the devotion of the brigands to their chief
was well known, and it was supposed that they had concocted the story
to secure his safety; but after events confirmed their statement. The
terrible visits, burnings, and robberies ceased; the roads again became
safe. According to another report, Doubrovsky had fled to some foreign
country.
[Footnote 1: Diminutive of Stepan (Stephen).]
THE QUEEN OF SPADES.
CHAPTER I.
There was a card party at the rooms of Naroumoff of the Horse Guards.
The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five
o’clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those
who had won, ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently
at their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, however, the
conversation became more animated, and all took a part in it.
“And how did you fare, Sourin?” asked the host.
“Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: I play
mirandole, I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out,
and yet I always lose!”
“And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red?...
Your firmness astonishes me.”
“But what do you think of Hermann?” said one of the guests, pointing
to a young Engineer: “he has never had a card in his hand in his life,
he has never in his life laid a wager, and yet he sits here till five
o’clock in the morning watching our play.”
“Play interests me very much,” said Hermann: “but I am not in the
position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the
superfluous.”
“Hermann is a German: he is economical--that is all!” observed Tomsky.
“But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my
grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna.”
“How so?” inquired the guests.
“I cannot understand,” continued Tomsky, “how it is that my grandmother
does not punt.”
“What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not punting?”
said Naroumoff.
“Then you do not know the reason why?”
“No, really; haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Oh! then listen. You must know that, about sixty years ago, my
grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People
used to run after her to catch a glimpse of the ‘Muscovite Venus.’
Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother maintains that he
almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time
ladies used to play at faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost a
very considerable sum to the Duke of Orleans. On returning home, my
grandmother removed the patches from her face, took off her hoops,
informed my grandfather of her loss at the gaming-table, and ordered
him to pay the money. My deceased grandfather, as far as I remember,
was a sort of house-steward to my grandmother. He dreaded her like
fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went out of his
mind; he calculated the various sums she had lost, and pointed out to
her that in six months she had spent half a million of francs, that
neither their Moscow nor Saratoff estates were in Paris, and finally
refused point blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on
the ear and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The next
day she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic punishment had
produced an effect upon him, but she found him inflexible. For the
first time in her life, she entered into reasonings and explanations
with him, thinking to be able to convince him by pointing out to him
that there are debts and debts, and that there is a great difference
between a Prince and a coachmaker. But it was all in vain, my
grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not rest there.
My grandmother did not know what to do. She had shortly before become
acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St.
Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories are told. You know that
he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the discoverer of the
elixir of life, of the philosopher’s stone, and so forth. Some laughed
at him as a charlatan; but Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was
a spy. But be that as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery
surrounding him, was a very fascinating person, and was much sought
after in the best circles of society. Even to this day my grandmother
retains an affectionate recollection of him, and becomes quite angry
if anyone speaks disrespectfully of him. My grandmother knew that St.
Germain had large sums of money at his disposal. She resolved to have
recourse to him, and she wrote a letter to him asking him to come to
her without delay. The queer old man immediately waited upon her and
found her overwhelmed with grief. She described to him in the blackest
colours the barbarity of her husband, and ended by declaring that her
whole hope depended upon his friendship and amiability.
“St. Germain reflected.
“‘I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he; ‘but I know that you
would not rest easy until you had paid me back, and I should not like
to bring fresh troubles upon you. But there is another way of getting
out of your difficulty: you can win back your money.’
“‘But, my dear Count,’ replied my grandmother, ‘I tell you that I
haven’t any money left.’
“‘Money is not necessary,’ replied St. Germain: ‘be pleased to listen
to me.’
“Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us would give a
good deal....”
The young officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his
pipe, puffed away for a moment and then continued:
“That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles to the _jeu de
la reine._ The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my grandmother excused
herself in an off-handed manner for not having yet paid her debt, by
inventing some little story, and then began to play against him. She
chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won
_sonika_,[1] and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she had
lost.”
“Mere chance!” said one of the guests.
“A tale!” observed Hermann.
“Perhaps they were marked cards!” said a third.
“I do not think so,” replied Tomsky gravely.
“What!” said Naroumoff, “you have a grandmother who knows how to hit
upon three lucky cards in succession, and you have never yet succeeded
in getting the secret of it out of her?”
“That’s the deuce of it!” replied Tomsky: “she had four sons, one of
whom was my father; all four were determined gamblers, and yet not to
one of them did she ever reveal her secret, although it would not have
been a bad thing either for them or for me. But this is what I heard
from my uncle, Count Ivan Hitch, and he assured me, on his honour,
that it was true. The late Chaplitsky--the same who died in poverty
after having squandered millions--once lost, in his youth, about
three hundred thousand roubles--to Zoritch, if I remember rightly. He
was in despair. My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the
extravagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chaplitsky. She
gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, at
the same time exacting from him a solemn promise that he would never
play at cards again as long as he lived. Chaplitsky then went to his
victorious opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card he
staked fifty thousand roubles and won _sonika_; he doubled the stake
and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same tactics, he won back
more than he had lost....
“But it is time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six already.”
And indeed it was already beginning to dawn: the young men emptied
their glasses and then took leave of each other.
[Footnote 1: Said of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest
possible time.]
CHAPTER II.
The old Countess A---- was seated in her dressings room in front of
her looking-glass. Three waiting maids stood around her. One held a
small pot of rouge, another a box of hair-pins, and the third a tall
cap with bright red ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest
pretensions to beauty, but she still preserved the habits of her youth,
dressed in strict accordance with the fashion of seventy years before,
and made as long and as careful a toilette as she would have done sixty
years previously. Near the window, at an embroidery frame, sat a young
lady, her ward.
“Good morning, grandmamma,” said a young officer, entering the room.
“_Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise_. Grandmamma, I want to ask you something.”
“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 direct to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you
at B----’s yesterday?”
“Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing was kept up
until five o’clock. How charming Eletskaia was!”
“But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn’t she like her
grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By the way, she must be very
old, the Princess Daria Petrovna.”
“How do you mean, old?” cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; “she died seven
years ago.”
The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young officer. He
then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of the
death of any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lips. But the old
Countess heard the news with the greatest indifference.
“Dead!” said she; “and I did not know it. We were appointed maids of
honour at the same time, and when we were presented to the Empress....”
And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her grandson one of
her anecdotes.
“Come, Paul,” said she, when she had finished her story, “help me to
get up. Lizanka,[1] where is my snuff-box?”
And the Countess with her three maids went behind a screen to finish
her toilette. Tomsky was left alone with the young lady.
“Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Countess?” asked
Lizaveta Ivanovna in a whisper.
“Naroumoff. Do you know him?”
“No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?”
“A soldier.”
“Is he in the Engineers?”
“No, in the Cavalry. What made you think that he was in the Engineers?”
The young lady smiled, but made no reply.
“Paul,” cried the Countess from behind the screen, “send me some new
novel, only pray don’t let it be one of the present day style.”
“What do you mean, grandmother?”
“That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his father nor
his mother, and in which there are no drowned bodies. I have a great
horror of drowned persons.”
“There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a Russian one?”
“Are there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, pray send me one!”
“Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry.... Goodbye, Lizaveta Ivanovna.
What made you think that Naroumoff was in the Engineers?”
And Tomsky left the boudoir.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone: she laid aside her work and began to
look out of the window. A few moments afterwards, at a corner house on
the other side of the street, a young officer appeared. A deep blush
covered her cheeks; she took up her work again and bent her head down
over the frame. At the same moment the Countess returned completely
dressed.
“Order the carriage, Lizaveta,” said she; “we will go out for a drive.”
Lizaveta arose from the frame and began to arrange her work.
“What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?” cried the
Countess. “Order the carriage to be got ready at once.”
“I will do so this moment,” replied the young lady, hastening into the
ante-room.
A servant entered and gave the Countess some books from Prince Paul
Alexandrovitch.
“Tell him that I am much obliged to him,” said the Countess. “Lizaveta!
Lizaveta! where are you running to?”
“I am going to dress.”
“There is plenty of time, my dear. Sit down here. Open the first volume
and read to me aloud.”
Her companion took the book and read a few lines.
“Louder,” said the Countess. “What is the matter with you, my child?
Have you lost your voice? Wait--give me that footstool--a little
nearer--that will do!”
Lizaveta read two more pages. The Countess yawned.
“Put the book down,” said she: “what a lot of nonsense! Send it back to
Prince Paul with my thanks.... But where is the carriage?”
“The carriage is ready,” said Lizaveta, looking out into the street.
“How is it that you are not dressed?” said the Countess: “I must always
wait for you. It is intolerable, my dear!”
Liza hastened to her room. She had not been there two minutes, before
the Countess began to ring with all her might. The three waiting-maids
came running in at one door and the valet at another.
“How is it that you cannot hear me when I ring for you?” said the
Countess. “Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna that I am waiting for her.”
Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak on.
“At last you are here!” said the Countess. “But why such an elaborate
toilette? Whom do you intend to captivate? What sort of weather is it?
It seems rather windy.”
“No, Your Ladyship, it is very calm,” replied the valet.
“You never think of what you are talking about. Open the window. So it
is: windy and bitterly cold. Unharness the horses. Lizaveta, we won’t
go out--there was no need for you to deck yourself like that.”
“What a life is mine!” thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.
And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate creature. “The
bread of the stranger is bitter,” says Dante, “and his staircase hard
to climb.” But who can know what the bitterness of dependence is so
well as the poor companion of an old lady of quality? The Countess
A---- had by no means a bad heart, but she was capricious, like a
woman who had been spoilt by the world, as well as being avaricious
and egotistical, like all old people who have seen their best days,
and whose thoughts are with the past and not the present. She
participated in all the vanities of the great world, went to balls,
where she sat in a corner, painted and dressed in old-fashioned style,
like a deformed but indispensable ornament of the ball-room; all the
guests on entering approached her and made a profound bow, as if in
accordance with a set ceremony, but after that nobody took any further
notice of her. She received the whole town at her house, and observed
the strictest etiquette, although she could no longer recognize the
faces of people. Her numerous domestics, growing fat and old in her
ante-chamber and servants’ hall, did just as they liked, and vied with
each other in robbing the aged Countess in the most bare-faced manner.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was the martyr of the household. She made tea, and
was reproached with using too much sugar; she read novels aloud to the
Countess, and the faults of the author were visited upon her head; she
accompanied the Countess in her walks, and was held answerable for
the weather or the state of the pavement. A salary was attached to
the post, but she very rarely received it, although she was expected
to dress like everybody else, that is to say, like very few indeed.
In society she played the most pitiable rôle. Everybody knew her, and
nobody paid her any attention. At balls she danced only when a partner
was wanted, and ladies would only take hold of her arm when it was
necessary to lead her out of the room to attend to their dresses. She
was very self-conscious, and felt her position keenly, and she looked
about her with impatience for a deliverer to come to her rescue; but
the young men, calculating in their giddiness, honoured her with but
very little attention, although Lizaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times
prettier than the bare-faced and cold-hearted marriageable girls
around whom they hovered. Many a time did she quietly slink away
from the glittering but wearisome drawing-room, to go and cry in her
own poor little room, in which stood a screen, a chest of drawers, a
looking-glass and a painted bedstead, and where a tallow candle burnt
feebly in a copper candle-stick.
One morning--this was about two days after the evening party described
at the beginning of this story, and a week previous to the scene at
which we have just assisted--Lizaveta Ivanovna was seated near the
window at her embroidery frame, when, happening to look out into
the street, she caught sight of a young Engineer officer, standing
motionless with his eyes fixed upon her window. She lowered her head
and went on again with her work. About five minutes afterwards she
looked out again--the young officer was still standing in the same
place. Not being in the habit of coquetting with passing officers, she
did not continue to gaze out into the street, but went on sewing for,
a couple of hours, without raising her head. Dinner was announced. She
rose up and began to put her embroidery away, but glancing casually out
of the window, she perceived the officer again. This seemed to her very
strange. After dinner she went to the window with a certain feeling of
uneasiness, but the officer was no longer there--and she thought no
more about him.
A couple of days afterwards, just as she was stepping into the carriage
with the Countess, she saw him again. He was standing close behind the
door, with his face half-concealed by his fur collar, but his dark eyes
sparkled beneath his cap. Lizaveta felt alarmed, though she knew not
why, and she trembled as she seated herself in the carriage.
On returning home, she hastened to the window--the officer was standing
in his accustomed place, with his eyes fixed upon her. She drew back, a
prey to curiosity and agitated by a feeling which was quite new to her.
From that time forward’ not a day passed without the young officer
making his appearance under the window at the customary hour, and
between him and her there was established a sort of mute acquaintance.
Sitting in her place at work, she used to feel his approach; and
raising her head, she would look at him longer and longer each day. The
young man seemed to be very grateful to her: she saw with the sharp eye
of youth, how a sudden flush covered his pale cheeks each time that
their glances met. After about a week she commenced to smile at him....
When Tomsky asked permission of his grandmother the Countess to present
one of his friends to her, the young girl’s heart beat violently. But
hearing that Naroumoff was not an Engineer, she regretted that by her
thoughtless question, she had betrayed her secret to the volatile
Tomsky.
Hermann was the son of a German who had become a naturalized Russian,
and from whom he had inherited a small capital. Being firmly convinced
of the necessity of preserving his independence, Hermann did not touch
his private income, but lived on his pay, without allowing himself
the slightest luxury. Moreover, he was reserved and ambitious, and
his companions rarely had an opportunity of making merry at the
expense of his extreme parsimony. He had strong passions and an ardent
imagination, but his firmness of disposition preserved him from the
ordinary errors of young men. Thus, though a gamester at heart, he
never touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow
him--as he said--“to risk the necessary in the hope of winning the
superfluous,” yet he would sit for nights together at the card table
and follow with feverish anxiety the different turns of the game.
The story of the three cards had produced a powerful impression upon
his imagination, and all night long he could think of nothing else.
“If,” he thought to himself the following evening, as he walked along
the streets of St. Petersburg, “if the old Countess would but reveal
her secret to me! if she would only tell me the names of the three
winning cards. Why should I not try my fortune? I must get introduced
to her and win her favour--become her lover.... But all that will
take time, and she is eighty-seven years old: she might be dead in
a week, in a couple of days even!... But the story itself: can it
really be true?... No! Economy, temperance and industry: those are
my three winning cards; by means of them I shall be able to double
my capital--increase it sevenfold, and procure for myself ease and
independence.”
Musing in this manner, he walked on until he found himself in one
of the principal streets of St. Petersburg, in front of a house
of antiquated architecture. The street was blocked with equipage;
carriages one after the other drew up in front of the brilliantly
illuminated doorway. At one moment there stepped out on to the pavement
the well-shaped little foot of some young beauty, at another the heavy
boot of a cavalry officer, and then the silk stockings and shoes of
a member of the diplomatic world. Furs and cloaks passed in rapid
succession before the gigantic porter at the entrance.
Hermann stopped. “Who’s house is this?” he asked of the watchman at the
corner.
“The Countess A----’s,” replied the watchman.
Hermann started. The strange story of the three cards again presented
itself to his imagination. He began walking up and down before the
house, thinking of its owner and her strange secret. Returning late to
his modest lodging, he could not go to sleep for a long time, and when
at last he did doze off, he could dream of nothing but cards, green
tables, piles of banknotes and heaps of ducats. He played one card
after the other, winning uninterruptedly, and then he gathered up the
gold and filled his pockets with the notes. When he woke up late the
next morning, he sighed over the loss of his imaginary wealth, and then
sallying out into the town, he found himself once more in front of the
Countess’s residence. Some unknown power seemed to have attracted him
thither. He stopped and looked up at the windows. At one of these he
saw a head with luxuriant black hair, which was bent down probably over
some book or an embroidery frame. The head was raised. Hermann saw a
fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment decided his fate.
[Footnote 1: Diminutive of Lizaveta (Elizabeth).]
CHAPTER III.
Lizaveta Ivanovna had scarcely taken off her hat and cloak, when the
Countess sent for her and again ordered her to get the carriage ready.
The vehicle drew up before the door, and they prepared to take their
seats. Just at the moment when two footmen were assisting the old lady
to enter the carriage, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing close beside
the wheel; he grasped her hand; alarm caused her to lose her presence
of mind, and the young man disappeared--but not before he had left a
letter between her fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during
the whole of the drive she neither saw nor heard anything. It was the
custom of the Countess, when out for an airing in her carriage, to be
constantly asking such questions as: “Who was that person that met us
just now? What is the name of this bridge? What is written on that
signboard?” On this occasion, however, Lizaveta returned such vague and
absurd answers, that the Countess became angry with her.
“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she exclaimed. “Have you taken
leave of your senses, or what is it? Do you not hear me or understand
what I say?... Heaven be thanked, I am still in my right mind and speak
plainly enough!”
Lizaveta Ivanovna did not hear her. On returning home she ran to her
room, and drew the letter out of her glove: it was not sealed. Lizaveta
read it. The letter contained a declaration of love; it was tender,
respectful, and copied word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta
did not know anything of the German language, and she was quite
delighted.
For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy. For the
first time in her life she was entering into secret and confidential
relations with a young man. His boldness alarmed her. She reproached
herself for her imprudent behaviour, and knew not what to do. Should
she cease to sit at the window and, by assuming an appearance of
indifference towards him, put a check upon the young officer’s desire
for further acquaintance with her? Should she send his letter back to
him, or should she answer him in a cold and decided manner? There was
nobody to whom she could turn in her perplexity, for she had neither
female friend nor adviser.... At length she resolved to reply to him.
She sat down at her little writing-table, took pen and paper, and began
to think. Several times she began her letter, and then tore it up: the
way she had expressed herself seemed to her either too inviting or too
cold and decisive. At last she succeeded in writing a few lines with
which she felt satisfied.
“I am convinced,” she wrote, “that your intentions are honourable, and
that you do not wish to offend me by any imprudent behaviour, but our
acquaintance must not begin in such a manner. I return you your letter,
and I hope that I shall never have any cause to complain of this
undeserved slight.”
The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lizaveta rose
from her embroidery, went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator
and threw the letter into the street, trusting that the young officer
would have the perception to pick it up.
Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired to a
confectioner’s shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, he found inside
it his own letter and Lizaveta’s reply. He had expected this, and he
returned home, his mind deeply occupied with his intrigue.
Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed young girl from a milliner’s
establishment brought Lizaveta a letter. Lizaveta opened it with great
uneasiness, fearing that it was a demand for money, when suddenly she
recognized Hermann’s handwriting.
“You have made a mistake, my dear,” said she: “this letter is not for
me.”
“Oh, yes, it is for you,” replied the girl, smiling very knowingly.
“Have the goodness to read it.”
Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Hermann requested an interview.
“It cannot be,” she cried, alarmed at the audacious request, and the
manner in which it was made. “This letter is certainly not for me.”
And she tore it into fragments.
“If the letter was not for you, why have you torn it up?” I said the
girl. “I should have given it back to the person who sent it.”
“Be good enough, my dear,” said Lizaveta, disconcerted by this remark,
“not to bring me any more letters for the future, and tell the person
who sent you that he ought to be ashamed....”
But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every day Lizaveta
received from him a letter, sent now in this way, now in that. They
were no longer translated from the German. Hermann wrote them under the
inspiration of passion, and spoke in his own language, and they bore
full testimony to the inflexibility of his desire and the disordered
condition of his uncontrollable imagination. Lizaveta no longer thought
of sending them back to him: she became intoxicated with them and
began to reply to them, and little by little her answers became longer
and more affectionate. At last she threw out of the window to him the
following letter:
“This evening there is going to be a ball at the Embassy. The Countess
will be there. We shall remain until two o’clock. You have now an
opportunity of seeing me alone. As soon as the Countess is gone,
the servants will very probably go out, and there will be nobody
left but the Swiss, but he usually goes to sleep in his lodge. Come
about half-past eleven. Walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody
in the ante-room, ask if the Countess is at home. You will be told
‘No,’ in which case there will be nothing left for you to do but to
go away again. But it is most probable that you will meet nobody.
The maidservants will all be together in one room. On leaving the
ante-room, turn to the left, and walk straight on until you reach the
Countess’s bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find two
doors: the one on the right leads to a cabinet, which the Countess
never enters; the one on the left leads to a corridor, at the end of
which is a little winding staircase; this leads to my room.”
Hermann trembled like a tiger, as he waited for the appointed time to
arrive. At ten o’clock in the evening he was already in front of the
Countess’s house. The weather was terrible; the wind blew with great
violence; the sleety snow fell in large flakes; the lamps emitted a
feeble light, the streets were deserted; from time to time a sledge,
drawn by a sorry-looking hack, passed by, on the look-out for a belated
passenger. Hermann was enveloped in a thick overcoat, and felt neither
wind nor snow.
At last the Countess’s carriage drew up. Hermann saw two footmen carry
out in their arms the bent form of the old lady, wrapped in sable fur,
and immediately behind her, clad in a warm mantle, and with her head
ornamented with a wreath of fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door
was closed. The carriage rolled away heavily through the yielding snow.
The porter shut the street-door; the windows became dark.
Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted house; at length he
stopped under a lamp, and glanced at his watch: it was twenty minutes
past eleven. He remained standing under the lamp, his eyes fixed upon
the watch, impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to pass. At
half-past eleven precisely, Hermann ascended the steps of the house,
and made his way into the brightly-illuminated vestibule. The porter
was not there. Hermann hastily ascended the staircase, opened the
door of the ante-room and saw a footman sitting asleep in an antique
chair by the side of a lamp. With a light firm step Hermann passed by
him. The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness, but a feeble
reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in the ante-room.
Hermann reached the Countess’s bedroom. Before a shrine, which was
full of old images, a golden lamp was burning. Faded stuffed chairs
and divans with soft cushions stood in melancholy symmetry around the
room, the walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of
the room hung two portraits painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun. One of
these represented a stout, red-faced man of about forty years of age in
a bright-green uniform and with a star upon his breast; the other--a
beautiful young woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls and a rose
in her powdered hair. In the corners stood porcelain shepherds and
shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop of the celebrated
Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the various playthings for the
amusement of ladies that were in vogue at the end of the last century,
when Montgolfier’s balloons and Mesmer’s magnetism were the rage.
Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the back of it stood a little
iron bedstead; on the right was the door which led to the cabinet; on
the left--the other which led to the corridor. He opened the latter,
and saw the little winding staircase which led to the room of the poor
companion.... But he retraced his steps and entered the dark cabinet.
The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the drawing-room
struck twelve; the strokes echoed through the room one after the
other, and everything was quiet again. Hermann stood leaning against
the cold stove. He was calm; his heart beat regularly, like that
of a man resolved upon a dangerous but inevitable undertaking. One
o’clock in the morning struck; then two; and he heard the distant
noise of carriage-wheels. An involuntary agitation took possession
of him. The carriage drew near and stopped. He heard the sound of
the carriage-steps’ being let down. All was bustle within the house.
The servants were running hither and thither, there was a confusion
of voices, and the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chamber-maids
entered the bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards followed by the
Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair.
Hermann peeped through a chink. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him,
and he heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral
staircase. For a moment his heart way assailed by something like a
pricking of conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, and his
heart became petrified as before.
The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. Her
rose-bedecked cap was taken off, and then her powdered wig was
removed from off her white and closely-cut hair. Hairpins fell in
showers around her. Her yellow satin dress, brocaded with silver,
fell down at her swollen feet Hermann was a witness of the repugnant
mysteries of her toilette; at last the Countess was in her night-cap
and dressing-gown, and in this costume, more suitable to her age, she
appeared less hideous and deformed.
Like all old people in general, the Countess suffered from
sleeplessness. Having undressed, she seated herself at the window in a
Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken away,
and once more the room was left with only one lamp burning in it. The
Countess sat there looking quite yellow, mumbling with her flaccid lips
and swaying to and fro. Her dull eyes expressed complete vacancy of
mind, and, looking at her, one would have thought that the rocking of
her body was not a voluntary action of her own, but was produced by the
action of some concealed galvanic mechanism.
Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable expression. The
lips ceased to tremble, the eyes became animated: before the Countess
stood an unknown man.
“Do not be alarmed, for Heaven’s sake, do not be alarmed!” said he in a
low but distinct voice. “I have no intention of doing you any harm, I
have only come to ask a favour of you.”
The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard what he
had said. Hermann thought that she was deaf, and, bending down towards
her ear, he repeated what he had said. The aged Countess remained
silent as before.
“You can insure the happiness of my life,” continued Hermann, “and
it will cost you nothing. I know that you can name three cards in
order----”
Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to understand what he
wanted; she seemed as if seeking for words to reply.
“It was a joke,” she replied at last: “I assure you it was only a joke.”
“There is no joking about the matter,” replied Hermann angrily.
“Remember Chaplitsky, whom you helped to win.”
The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features expressed strong
emotion, but they quickly resumed their former immobility.
“Can you not name me these three winning cards?” continued Hermann.
The Countess remained silent; Hermann continued:
“For whom are you preserving your secret? For your grandsons? They
are rich enough without it; they do not know the worth of money. Your
cards would be of no use to a spendthrift. He who cannot preserve his
paternal inheritance, will die in want, even though he had a demon at
his service. I am not a man of that sort; I know the value of money.
Your three cards will not be thrown away upon me. Come!”...
He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The Countess remained
silent; Hermann fell upon his knees.
“If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” said he, “if you
remember its rapture, if you have ever smiled at the cry of your
new-born child, if any human feeling has ever entered into your breast,
I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all that
is most sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me your
secret. Of what use is it to you?... May be it is connected with some
terrible sin, with the loss of eternal salvation, with some bargain
with the devil.... Reflect,--you are old; you have not long to live--I
am ready to take your sins upon my soul. Only reveal to me your secret.
Remember that the happiness of a man is in your hands, that not only I,
but my children, and grandchildren will bless your memory and reverence
you as a saint....”
The old Countess answered not a word.
Hermann rose to his feet.
“You old hag!” he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, “then I will make you
answer!”
With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket.
At the sight of the pistol, the Countess for the second time exhibited
strong emotion. She shook her head and raised her hands as if to
protect herself from the shot ... then she fell backwards and remained
motionless.
“Come, an end to this childish nonsense!” said Hermann, taking hold of
her hand. “I ask you for the last time: will you tell me the names of
your three cards, or will you not?”
The Countess made no reply. Hermann perceived that she was dead!
CHAPTER IV.
Izaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress,
lost in deep thought. On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the
chambermaid who very reluctantly came forward, to assist her, saying
that she would undress herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up
to her own room, expecting to find Hermann there, but yet hoping not
to find him. At the first glance she convinced herself that he was not
there, and she thanked her fate for having prevented him keeping the
appointment. She sat down without undressing, and began to recall to
mind all the circumstances which in so short a time had carried her so
far. It was not three weeks since the time when she first saw the young
officer from the window--and yet she was already in correspondence
with him, and he had succeeded in inducing her to grant him a
nocturnal interview! She knew his name only through his having written
it at the bottom of some of his letters; she had never spoken to him,
had never heard his voice, and had never heard him spoken of until that
evening. But, strange to say, that very evening at the ball, Tomsky,
being piqued with the young Princess Pauline N----, who, contrary to
her usual custom, did not flirt with him, wished to revenge himself by
assuming an air of indifference: he therefore engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna
and danced an endless mazurka with her. During the whole of the time he
kept teasing her about her partiality for Engineer officers; he assured
her that he knew far more than she imagined, and some of his jests were
so happily aimed, that Lizaveta thought several times that her secret
was known to him.
“From whom have you learnt all this?” she asked, smiling.
“From a friend of a person very well known to you,” replied Tomsky,
“from a very distinguished man.”
“And who is this distinguished man?”
“His name is Hermann.”
Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all sense of
feeling.
“This Hermann,” continued Tomsky, “is a man of romantic personality.
He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles. I
believe that he has at least three crimes upon his conscience.... How
pale you have become!”
“I have a headache.... But what did this Hermann--or whatever his name
is--tell you?”
“Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he says that in
his place he would act very differently ... I even think that Hermann
himself has designs upon you; at least, he listens very attentively to
all that his friend has to say about you.”
“And where has he seen me?”
“In church, perhaps; or on the parade--God alone knows where. It may
have been in your room, while you were asleep, for there is nothing
that he----”
Three ladies approaching him with the question: “_oubli ou regret?_”
interrupted the conversation, which had become so tantalizingly
interesting to Lizaveta.
The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline herself. She
succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him during the numerous
turns of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. On
returning to his place, Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or
Lizaveta. She longed to renew the interrupted conversation, but the
mazurka came to an end, and shortly afterwards the old Countess took
her departure.
Tomsky’s words were nothing more than the customary small talk of the
dance, but they sank deep into the soul of the young dreamer. The
portrait, sketched by Tomsky, coincided with the picture she had formed
within her own mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the ordinary
countenance of her admirer became invested with attributes capable of
alarming her and fascinating her imagination at the same time. She was
now sitting with her bare arms crossed and with her head, still adorned
with flowers, sunk upon her uncovered bosom. Suddenly the door opened
and Hermann entered. She shuddered.
“Where were you?” she asked in a terrified whisper.
“In the old Countess’s bedroom,” replied Hermann: “I have just left
her. The Countess is dead.”
“My God! What do you say?”
“And I am afraid,” added Hermann, “that I am the cause of her death.”
Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky’s words found an echo in her soul:
“This man has at least three crimes upon his conscience!” Hermann sat
down by the window near her, and related all that had happened.
Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passionate letters,
those ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit--all this was not
love! Money--that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy
his desire and make him happy! The poor girl had been nothing but the
blind tool of a robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress!...
She wept bitter tears of agonized repentance. Hermann gazed at her in
silence: his heart, too, was a prey to violent emotion, but neither the
tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful charm of her beauty, enhanced
by her grief, could produce any impression upon his hardened soul. He
felt no pricking of conscience at the thought of the dead old woman.
One thing only grieved him: the irreparable loss of the secret from
which he had expected to obtain great wealth.
“You are a monster!” said Lizaveta at last.
“I did not wish for her death,” replied Hermann: “my pistol was not
loaded.”
Both remained silent.
The day began to dawn. Lizaveta extinguished her candle: a pale light
illumined her room. She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them
towards Hermann: he was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed
and with a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore
a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance
struck Lizaveta even.
“How shall I get you out of the house?” said she at last. “I thought of
conducting you down the secret staircase, but in that case it would be
necessary to go through the Countess’s bedroom, and I am afraid.”
“Tell me how to find this secret staircase--I will go alone.”
Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann
and gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold,
powerless hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.
He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the
Countess’s bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified; her face
expressed profound tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her, and gazed
long and earnestly at her, as if he wished to convince himself of the
terrible reality; at last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the
tapestry for the door, and then began to descend the dark staircase,
filled with strange emotions. “Down this very staircase,” thought
he, “perhaps coming from the very same room, and at this very same
hour sixty years ago, there may have glided, in an embroidered coat,
with his hair dressed _à l’oiseau royal_ and pressing to his heart his
three-cornered hat, some young gallant who has long been mouldering in
the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day ceased to
beat....”
At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened
with a key, and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the
street.
CHAPTER V.
Three days after the fatal night, at nine o’clock in the morning,
Hermann repaired to the Convent of where the last honours were to
be paid to the mortal remains of the old Countess. Although feeling
no remorse, he could not altogether stifle the voice of conscience,
which said to him: “You are the murderer of the old woman!” In spite
of his entertaining very little religious belief, he was exceedingly
superstitious; and believing that the dead Countess might exercise an
evil influence on his life, he resolved to be present at her obsequies
in order to implore her pardon.
The church was full. It was with difficulty that Hermann made his
way through the crowd of people. The coffin was placed upon a rich
catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin. The deceased Countess lay within
it, with her hands crossed upon her breast, with a lace cap upon her
head and dressed in a white satin robe. Around the catafalque stood
the members of her household: the servants in black _caftans_, with
armorial ribbons upon their shoulders, and candles in their hands; the
relatives--children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren--in deep
mourning.
Nobody wept; tears would have been _une affectation._ The Countess was
so old, that her death could have surprised nobody, and her relatives
had long looked upon her as being out of the world. A famous preacher
pronounced the funeral sermon. In simple and touching words he
described the peaceful passing away of the righteous, who had passed
long years in calm preparation for a Christian end. “The angel of
death found her,” said the orator, “engaged in pious meditation and
waiting for the midnight bridegroom.”
The service concluded amidst profound silence. The relatives went
forward first to take farewell of the corpse. Then followed the
numerous guests, who had come to render the last homage to her who for
so many years had been a participator in their frivolous amusements.
After these followed the members of the Countess’s household. The last
of these was an old woman of the same age as the deceased. Two young
women led her forward by the hand. She had not strength enough to bow
down to the ground--she merely shed a few tears and kissed the cold
hand of her mistress.
Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin. He knelt down upon the
cold stones and remained in that position for some minutes; at last
he arose, as pale as the deceased Countess herself; he ascended the
steps of the catafalque and bent over the corpse.... At that moment
it seemed to him that the dead woman darted a mocking look at him and
winked with one eye. Hermann started back, took a false step and fell
to the ground. Several persons hurried forward and raised him up. At
the same moment Lizaveta Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of
the church. This episode disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of
the gloomy ceremony. Among the congregation arose a deep murmur, and
a tall thin chamberlain, a near relative of the deceased, whispered,
in the ear of an Englishman who was standing near him, that the young
officer was a natural son of the Countess, to which the Englishman
coldly replied: “Oh!”
During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely excited. Repairing
to an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, he drank a great deal of
wine, contrary to his usual custom, in the hope of deadening his
inward agitation. But the wine only served to excite his imagination
still more. On returning home, he threw himself upon his bed without
undressing, and fell into a deep sleep.
When he woke up it was already night, and the moon was shining into the
room. He looked at his watch: it was a quarter to three. Sleep had left
him; he sat down upon his bed and thought of the funeral of the old
Countess.
At that moment somebody in the street looked in at his window, and
immediately passed on again. Hermann paid no attention to this
incident. A few moments afterwards he heard the door of his ante-room
open. Hermann thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual,
returning from some nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard
footsteps that were unknown to him: somebody was walking softly over
the floor in slippers. The door opened, and a woman dressed in white,
entered the room. Hermann mistook her for his old nurse, and wondered
what could bring her there at that hour of, the night. But the white
woman glided rapidly across the room and stood before him and Hermann
recognized the Countess!
“I have come to you against my wish,” she said in a firm voice: “but I
have been ordered to grant your request. Three, seven, ace, will win
for you if played in succession, but only on these conditions: that you
do not play more than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you never
play again during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death, on
condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna.”
With these words she turned round very quietly, walked with a shuffling
gait towards the door and disappeared. Hermann heard the street-door
open and shut, and again he saw someone look in at him through the
window.
For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He then rose up and
entered the next room. His orderly was lying asleep upon the floor,
and he had much difficulty in waking him. The orderly was drunk as
usual, and no information could be obtained from him. The street-door
was locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote
down all the details of his vision.
CHAPTER VI.
Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two
bodies can occupy one and the same place in the physical world. “Three,
seven, ace” soon drove out of Hermann’s mind the thought of the dead
countess. “Three, seven, ace” were perpetually running through his head
and continually being repeated by his lips, If he saw a young girl, he
would say: “How slender she is! quite like the three of hearts.” If
anybody asked: “What is the time?” he would reply: “Five minutes to
seven.” Every stout man that he saw reminded him of the ace. “Three,
seven, ace” haunted him in his sleep, and assumed all possible shapes.
The threes bloomed before him in the storms of magnificent flowers,
the sevens were represented by gothic portals, and the aces became
transformed into gigantic spiders. One thought alone occupied his whole
mind--to make a profitable use of the secret which he had purchased so
dearly. He thought of applying for a furlough so as to travel abroad.
He wanted to go to Paris and tempt fortune in some of the public
gambling-houses that abounded there. Chance spared him all this trouble.
There was in Moscow a society of rich gamesters, presided over by the
celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed all his life at the card-table
and had amassed millions, accepting bills of exchange for his winnings
and paying his losses in ready money. His long experience secured
for him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, his
famous cook, and his agreeable and fascinating manners gained for
him the respect of the public. He came to St. Petersburg. The young
men of the capital flocked to his rooms, forgetting balls for cards,
and preferring the emotions of faro to the seductions of flirting.
Naroumoff conducted Hermann to Chekalinsky’s residence.
They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled with
attentive domestics. The place was crowded. Generals and Privy
Counsellors were playing at whist; young men were lolling carelessly
upon the velvet-covered sofas, eating ices and smoking pipes. In the
drawing-room, at the head of a long table, around which were assembled
about a score of players, sat the master of the house keeping the
bank. He was a man of about sixty years of age, of a very dignified
appearance; his head was covered with silvery-white hair; his full,
florid countenance expressed good-nature, and his eyes twinkled with a
perpetual smile. Naroumoff introduced Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook
him by the hand in a friendly manner, requested him not to stand on
ceremony, and then went on dealing.
The game occupied some time. On the table lay more than thirty cards.
Chekalinsky paused after each throw, in order to give the players time
to arrange their cards and note down their losses, listened politely to
their requests, and more politely still, put straight the corners of
cards that some player’s hand had chanced to bend. At last the game was
finished. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.
“Will you allow me to take a card?” said Hermann, stretching out his
hand from behind a stout gentleman who was punting.
Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acquiescence.
Naroumoff laughingly congratulated Hermann on his abjuration of that
abstention from cards which he had practised for so long a period, and
wished him a lucky beginning.
“Stake!” said Hermann, writing some figures with chalk on the back of
his card.
“How much?” asked the banker, contracting the muscles of his eyes;
“excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly.”
“Forty-seven thousand roubles,” replied Hermann.
At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round, and all
eyes were fixed upon Hermann.
“He has taken leave of his senses!” thought Naroumoff.
“Allow me to inform you,” said Chekalinsky, with his eternal smile,
“that you are playing very high; nobody here has ever staked more than
two hundred and seventy-five roubles at once.”
“Very well,” replied Hermann; “but do you accept my card or not?”
Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent.
“I only wish to observe,” said he, “that although I have the greatest
confidence in my friends, I can only play against ready money. For my
own part, I am quite convinced that your word is sufficient, but for
the sake of the order of the game, and to facilitate the reckoning up,
I must ask you to put the money on your card.”
Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed it to Chekalinsky,
who, after examining it in a cursory manner, placed it on Hermann’s
card.
He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on the left a
three.
“I have won!” said Hermann, showing his card.
A murmur of astonishment arose among the players. Chekalinsky frowned,
but the smile quickly returned to his face.
“Do you wish me to settle with you?” he said to Hermann.
“If you please,” replied the latter.
Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of banknotes and paid at
once. Hermann took up his money and left the table. Naroumoff could not
recover from his astonishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and
returned home.
The next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky’s. The host was
dealing. Hermann walked up to the table; the punters immediately made
room for him. Chekalinsky greeted him with a gracious bow.
Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed upon it
his forty-seven thousand roubles, together with his winnings of the
previous evening.
Chekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the right, a seven on
the left.
Hermann showed his seven.
There was a general exclamation. Chekalinsky was evidently ill at ease,
but he counted out the ninety-four thousand roubles and handed them
over to Hermann, who pocketed them in the coolest manner possible and
immediately left the house.
The next evening Hermann appeared again at the table. Everyone was
expecting him. The generals and Privy Counsellors left their whist in
order to watch such extraordinary play. The young officers quitted
their sofas, and even the servants crowded into the room. All pressed
round Hermann. The other players left off punting, impatient to see how
it would end. Hermann stood at the table and prepared to play alone
against the pale, but still smiling Chekalinsky. Each opened a pack of
cards. Chekalinsky shuffled. Hermann took a card and covered it with a
pile of bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned around.
Chekalinsky began to deal; his hands trembled. On the right a queen
turned up, and on the left an ace. “Ace has won!” cried Hermann,
showing his card.
“Your queen has lost,” said Chekalinsky, politely.
Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him the queen of
spades! He could not believe his eyes, nor could he understand how he
had made such a mistake.
At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades smiled
ironically and winked her eye at him. He was struck by her remarkable
resemblance....
“The old Countess!” he exclaimed, seized with terror.
Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings. For some time, Hermann remained
perfectly motionless. When at last he left the table, there was a
general commotion in the room.
“Splendidly punted!” said the players. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards
afresh, and the game went on as usual.
* * * * *
Hermann went out 01 ms mind, and is now confined in room Number 17
of the Oboukhoff Hospital. He never answers any questions, but he
constantly mutters with unusual rapidity: “Three, seven, ace! Three,
seven, queen!”
Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man, a son of
the former steward of the old Countess. He is in the service of the
State somewhere, and is in receipt of a good income. Lizaveta is also
supporting a poor relative.
Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain, and has become the
husband of the Princess Pauline.
AN AMATEUR PEASANT GIRL.
In one of our most distant governments was situated the domain of
Ivan Petrovitch Berestoff. In his youth he had served in the Guards,
but having quitted the service at the beginning of the year 1797, he
repaired to his estate, and since that time he had not stirred away
from it. He had married a poor but noble lady, who died in child-bed
at a time when he was absent from home on a visit to one of the
outlying fields of his domain. He soon found consolation in domestic
occupations. He built a house on a plan of his own, established a cloth
manufactory, made good use of his revenues, and began to consider
himself the most sensible man in the whole country roundabout, and in
this he was not contradicted by those of his neighbours who came to
visit him with their families and their dogs. On week-days he wore a
plush jacket, but on Sundays and holidays he appeared in a surtout of
cloth that had been manufactured on his own premises. He himself kept
an account of all his expenses, and he never read anything except the
“Senate Gazette.”
In general he was liked, although he was considered proud. There was
only one person who was not on good terms with him, and that was
Gregory Ivanovitch Mouromsky, his nearest neighbour. This latter was
a genuine Russian noble of the old stamp. After having squandered in
Moscow the greater part of his fortune, and having become a widower
about the same time, he retired to his last remaining estate, where he
continued to indulge in habits of extravagance, but of a new kind. He
laid out an English garden, on which he expended nearly the whole of
his remaining revenue. His grooms were dressed like English jockeys,
his daughter had an English governess, and his fields were cultivated
after the English method.
“But after the foreign manner Russian corn does not bear fruit,” and
in spite of a considerable reduction in his expenses, the revenues
of Gregory Ivanovitch did not increase. He found means, even in the
country, of contracting new debts. Nevertheless he was not considered
a fool, for he was the first landowner in his government who conceived
the idea of placing his estate under the safeguard of a council of
tutelage--a proceeding which at that time was considered exceedingly
complicated and venturesome. Of all those who censured him, Berestoff
showed himself the most severe. Hatred of all innovation was a
distinguishing trait in his character. He could not bring himself to
speak calmly of the Anglomania of his neighbour, and he constantly
found occasion to criticise him. If he showed his possessions to a
guest, in reply to the praises bestowed upon him for his economical
arrangements, he would say with a sly smile:--
“Ah yes, it is not the same with me as with my neighbour Gregory
Ivanovitch. What need have we to ruin ourselves in the English style,
when we have enough to do to keep the wolf from the door in the Russian
style?”
These, and similar sarcastic remarks, thanks to the zeal of obliging
neighbours, did not fail to reach the ears of Gregory Ivanovitch
greatly embellished. The Anglomaniac bore criticism as impatiently as
our journalists. He became furious, and called his traducer a bear and
a countryman.
Such were the relations between the two proprietors, when the son of
Berestoff returned home to his father’s estate. He had been educated
at the University of ----, and was anxious to enter the military
service, but to this his father would not give his consent. For the
civil service the young man had not the slightest inclination, and as
neither felt inclined to yield to the other, the young Alexei lived in;
the meantime like a nobleman, and allowed his moustache to grow at all
events.[1]
Alexei was indeed a fine young fellow, and it would really have been
a pity were his slender figure never to be set off to advantage by a
military uniform, and were he to be compelled to spend his youth in
bending over the papers of the chancery office, instead of bestriding a
gallant steed. The neighbours, observing how he was always first in the
chase, and always out of the beaten tracks, unanimously agreed that
he would never make a useful official. The young ladies gazed after
him, and sometimes cast stolen glances at him, but Alexei troubled
himself very little about them, and they attributed this insensibility
to some secret love affair. Indeed, there passed from hand to hand
a copy of the address of one of his letters: “To Akoulina Petrovna
Kourotchkin, in Moscow, opposite the Alexeivsky Monastery, in the house
of the coppersmith Saveleff, with the request that she will forward
this letter to A. N. R.”
Those of my readers who have never lived in the country, cannot imagine
how charming these provincial young ladies are! Brought up in the pure
air, under the shadow of the apple trees of their gardens, they derive
their knowledge of the world and of life chiefly from books. Solitude,
freedom, and reading develop very early within them sentiments and
passions unknown to our town-bred beauties. For the young ladies of
the country the sound of the post-bell is an event; a journey to the
nearest town marks an epoch in their lives, and the visit of a guest
leaves behind a long, and sometimes an eternal recollection. Of course
everybody is at liberty to laugh at some of their peculiarities, but
the jokes of a superficial observer cannot nullify their essential
merits, the chief of which is that personality of character, that
_individualité_ without which, in Jean Paul’s opinion, there can be
no human greatness. In the capitals, women receive perhaps a better
instruction, but intercourse with the world soon levels the character
and makes their souls as uniform as their head-dresses. This is said
neither by way of praise nor yet by way of censure, but “_nota nostra
manet_,” as one of the old commentators writes.
It can easily be imagined what impression Alexei would produce among
the circle of our young ladies. He was the first who appeared before
them gloomy and disenchanted, the first who spoke to them of lost
happiness and of his blighted youth; in addition to which he wore a
mourning ring engraved with a death’s head. All this was something
quite new in that distant government. The young ladies simply went, out
of their minds about him.
But not one of them felt so much interest in him as the daughter of our
Anglomaniac Liza, or Betsy, as Gregory Ivanovitch usually called her.
As their parents did not visit each other, she had not yet seen Alexei,
even when he had become the sole topic of conversation among all the
young ladies of the neighbourhood. She was seventeen years of age. Dark
eyes illuminated her swarthy and exceedingly pleasant countenance. She
was an only child, and consequently she was perfectly spoiled. Her
wantonness and continual pranks delighted her father and filled with
despair the heart of Miss Jackson, her governess, an affected old maid
of forty, who powdered her face and darkened her eyebrows, read through
“Pamela”[2] twice a year, for which she received two thousand roubles,
and felt almost bored to death in this barbarous Russia of ours.
Liza was waited upon by Nastia, who, although somewhat older, was
quite as giddy as her mistress. Liza was very fond of her, revealed to
her all her secrets, and planned pranks together with her; in a word,
Nastia was a far more important person in the village of Priloutchina,
than the trusted confidante in a French tragedy.
“Will you allow me to go out to-day on a visit?” said Nastia one
morning, as she was dressing her mistress.
“Very well; but where are you going to?”
“To Tougilovo, to the Berestoffs. The wife of their cook is going to
celebrate her name-day to-day, and she came over yesterday to invite us
to dinner.”
“That’s curious,” said Liza: “the masters are at daggers drawn, but the
servants fête each other.”
“What have the masters to do with us?” replied Nastia. “Besides, I
belong to you, and not to your papa. You have not had any quarrel with
young Berestoff; let the old ones quarrel and fight, if it gives them
any pleasure.”
“Try and see Alexei Berestoff, Nastia, and then tell me what he looks
like and what sort of a person he is.”
Nastia promised to do so, and all day long Liza waited with impatience
for her return. In the evening Nastia made her appearance.
“Well, Lizaveta Gregorievna,” said she, on entering the room, “I have
seen young Berestoff, and I had ample opportunity for taking a good
look at him, for we have been together all day.”
“How did that happen? Tell me about it, tell me everything about it.”
“Very well. We set out, I, Anissia Egorovna, Nenila, Dounka....”
“Yes, yes, I know. And then?”
“With your leave, I will tell you everything in detail. We arrived just
in time for dinner. The room was full of people. The Kolbinskys were
there, as well as the Zakharevskys, the Khloupinskys, the bailiff’s
wife and her daughters....”
“Well, and Berestoff?”
“Wait a moment. We sat down to table; the bailiff’s wife had the place
of honour. I sat next to her ... the daughters pouted and didn’t like
it, but I didn’t care about them....”
“Good heavens, Nastia, how tiresome you are with your never-ending
details!”
“How impatient you are! Well, we rose from the table we had been
sitting down for three hours, and the dinner was excellent: pastry,
blanc-manges, blue, red and striped.... Well, we left the table and
went into the garden to have a game at catching one another, and it was
then that the young lord made his appearance.”
“Well, and is it true that he is so very handsome?”
“Exceedingly handsome: tall, well-built, and with red cheeks....”
“Really? And I was under the impression that he was fair. Well, and how
did he seem to you? Sad, thoughtful?”
“Nothing of the kind! I have never in my life seen such a frolicsome
person. He wanted to join in the game with us.”
“Join in the game with you? Impossible!”
“Not all impossible. And what else do you think he wanted to do? To
kiss us all round!”
“With your permission, Nastia, you are talking nonsense.”
“With your permission, I am not talking nonsense. I had the greatest
trouble in the world to get away from him, He spent the whole day along
with us.”
“But they say that he is in love, and hasn’t eyes for anybody.”
“I don’t know anything about that, but I know that he looked at me
a good deal, and so he did at Tania, the bailiff’s daughter, and
at Pasha[3] Kolbinsky also. But it cannot be said that he offended
anybody--he is so very agreeable.”
“That is extraordinary! And what do they say about him in the house?”
“They say that he is an excellent master--so kind, so cheerful. They
have only one fault to find with him: he is too fond of running after
the young girls. But for my part, I don’t think that is a very great
fault: he will grow steady with age.”
“How I should like to see him!” said Liza, with a sigh.
“What is there to hinder you from doing so? Tougilovo is not far from
us--only about three versts. Go and take a walk in that direction, or a
ride on horseback, and you will assuredly meet him. He goes out early
every morning with his gun.”
“No, no, that would not do. He might think that I was running after
him. Besides, our fathers are not on good terms, so that I cannot make
his acquaintance.... Ah! Nastia, do you know what I’ll do? I will dress
myself up as a peasant girl!”
“Exactly! Put on a coarse chemise and a _sarafan,_ and then go boldly
to Tougilovo; I will answer for it that Berestoff will not pass by
without taking notice of you.”
“And I know how to imitate the style of speech of the peasants about
here. Ah, Nastia! my dear Nastia! what an excellent idea!”
And Liza went to bed, firmly resolved on putting her plan into
execution.
The next morning she began to prepare for the accomplishment of her
scheme. She sent to the bazaar and bought some coarse linen, some
blue nankeen and some copper buttons, and with the help of Nastia she
cut out for herself a chemise and _sarafan._ She then set all the
female servants to work to do the necessary sewing, so that by the
evening everything was ready. Liza tried on the new costume, and as
she stood before the mirror, she confessed to herself that she had
never looked so charming. Then she practised her part. As she walked
she made a low bow, and then tossed her head several times, after the
manner of a china cat, spoke in the peasants’ dialect, smiled behind
her sleeve, and did everything to Nastia’s complete satisfaction.
One thing only proved irksome to her: she tried to walk barefooted
across the courtyard, but the turf pricked her tender feet, and she
found the stones and gravel unbearable. Nastia immediately came to her
assistance. She took the measurement of Liza’s foot, ran to the fields
to find Trophim the shepherd, and ordered him to make a pair of bast
shoes of the same measurement.
The next morning, almost before it was dawn, Liza was already awake.
Everybody in the house was still asleep. Nastia went to the gate to
wait for the shepherd. The sound of a horn was heard, and the village
flock defiled past the manor-house. Trophim, on passing by Nastia,
gave her a small pair of coloured bast shoes, and received from her a
half-rouble in exchange. Liza quietly dressed herself in the peasant’s
costume, whispered her instructions to Nastia with reference to Miss
Jackson, descended the back staircase and made her way through the
garden into the field beyond.
The eastern sky was all aglow, and the golden lines of clouds seemed
to be awaiting the sun, like courtiers await their monarch. The bright
sky, the freshness of the morning, the dew, the light breeze, and the
singing of the birds filled the heart of Liza with childish joy. The
fear of meeting some acquaintance seemed to give her wings, for she
flew rather than walked. But as she approached the wood which formed
the boundary of her father’s estate, she slackened her pace. Here she
resolved to wait for Alexei.
Her heart beat violently, she knew not why; but is not the fear which
accompanies our youthful escapades that which constitutes their
greatest charm? Liza advanced into the depth of the wood. The deep
murmur of the waving branches seemed to welcome the young girl. Her
gaiety vanished. Little by little she abandoned herself to sweet
reveries. She thought--but who cap say exactly what a young lady of
seventeen thinks of, alone in a wood, at six o’clock of a spring
morning? And so she walked musingly along the pathway, which was shaded
on both sides by tall trees, when suddenly a magnificent hunting dog
came barking and bounding towards her. Liza became alarmed and cried
out. But at the same moment a voice called out: “_Tout beau, Sbogar,
ici!_”... and a young hunter emerged from behind a clump of bushes.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear,” said he to Liza: “my dog does not bite.”
Liza had already recovered from her alarm, and she immediately took
advantage of her opportunity.
“But, sir,” said she, assuming a half-frightened, half-bashful
expression, “I am so afraid; he looks so fierce--he might fly at me
again.”
Alexei--for the reader has already recognized him--gazed fixedly at the
young peasant-girl.
“I will accompany you if you are afraid,” said he to her: “will you
allow me to walk along with you?”
“Who is to hinder you?” replied Liza. “Wills are free, and the road is
open to everybody.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Priloutchina; I am the daughter of Vassili the blacksmith, and I
am going to gather mushrooms.” (Liza carried a basket on her arm.) “And
you, sir? From Tougilovo, I have no doubt.”
“Exactly so,” replied Alexei: “I am the young master’s
valet-de-chambre.”
Alexei wanted to put himself on an equality with her, but Liza looked
at him and began to smile.
“That is a fib,” said she: “I am not such a fool as you may think. I
see very well that you are the young master himself.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I think so for a great many reasons.”
“But----”
“As if it were not possible to distinguish the master from the servant!
You are not dressed like a servant, you do not speak like one, and you
address your dog in a different way to us.”
Liza began to please Alexei more and more. As he was not accustomed
to standing upon ceremony with peasant girls, he wanted to embrace
her; but Liza drew back from him, and suddenly assumed such a cold and
severe look, that Alexei, although much amused, did not venture to
renew the attempt.
“If you wish that we should remain good friends,” said she with
dignity, “be good enough not to forget yourself.”
“Who taught you such wisdom?” asked Alexei, bursting into a laugh. “Can
it be my friend Nastenka,[4] the chambermaid to your young mistress?
See by what paths enlightenment becomes diffused!”
Liza felt that she had stepped out of her rôle, and she immediately
recovered herself.
“Do you think,” said she, “that I have never been to the manor-house?
Don’t alarm yourself; I have seen and heard a great many things....
But,” continued she, “if I talk to you, I shall not gather my
mushrooms. Go your way, sir, and I will go mine. Pray excuse me.”
And she was about to move off, but Alexei seized hold of her hand.
“What is your name, my dear?”
“Akoulina,” replied Liza, endeavouring to disengage her fingers from
his grasp: “but let me go, sir; it is time for me to return home.”
“Well, my friend Akoulina, I will certainly pay a visit to your father,
Vassili the blacksmith.”
“What do you say?” replied Liza quickly: “for Heaven’s sake, don’t
think of doing such a thing! If it were known at home that I had been
talking to a gentleman alone in the wood, I should fare very badly,--my
father, Vassili the blacksmith, would beat me to death.”
“But I really must see you again.”
“Well, then, I will come here again some time to gather mushrooms.”
“When?”
“Well, to-morrow, if you wish it.”
“My dear Akoulina, I would kiss you, but I dare not.... To-morrow,
then, at the same time, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, yes!”
“And you will not deceive me?”
“I will not deceive you.”
“Swear it.”
“Well, then, I swear by Holy Friday that I will come.”
The young people separated. Liza emerged from the wood, crossed the
field, stole into the garden and hastened to the place where Nastia
awaited her. There she changed her costume, replying absently to the
questions of her impatient confidante, and then she repaired to the
parlour. The cloth was laid, the breakfast was ready, and Miss Jackson,
already powdered and laced up, so that she looked like a wine-glass,
was cutting thin slices of bread and butter.
Her father praised her for her early walk.
“There is nothing so healthy,” said he, “as getting up at daybreak.”
Then he cited several instances of human longevity, which he had
derived from the English journals, and observed that all persons who
had lived to be upwards of a hundred, abstained from brandy and rose at
daybreak, winter and summer.
Liza did not listen to him. In her thoughts she was going over all the
circumstances of the meeting of that morning, all the conversation of
Akoulina with the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment
her. In vain did she try to persuade herself that their conversation
had not gone beyond the bounds of propriety, and that the frolic would
be followed by no serious consequences--her conscience spoke louder
than her reason. The promise given for the following day troubled her
more than anything else, and she almost felt resolved not to keep her
solemn oath. But then, might not Alexei, after waiting for her in vain,
make his way to the village and search out the daughter of Vassili the
blacksmith, the veritable Akoulina--a fat, pockmarked peasant girl--and
so discover the prank she had played upon him? This thought frightened
Liza, and she resolved to repair again to the little wood the next
morning in the same disguise as at first.
On his side, Alexei was in an ecstasy of delight. All day long he
thought of his new acquaintance; and in his dreams at night the form of
the dark-skinned beauty appeared before him. The morning had scarcely
begun to dawn, when he was already dressed. Without giving himself
time to load his gun, he set out for the fields with his faithful
Sbogar, and hastened to the place of the promised rendezvous. A half
hour of intolerable waiting passed by; at last he caught a glimpse of
a blue _sarafan_ between the bushes, and he rushed forward to meet his
charming Akoulina. She smiled at the ecstatic nature of his thanks,
but Alexei immediately observed upon her face traces of sadness and
uneasiness. He wished to know the cause. Liza confessed to him that her
act seemed to her very frivolous, that she repented of it, that this
time she did not wish to break her promised word, but that this meeting
would be the last, and she therefore entreated him to break off an
acquaintanceship which could not lead to any good.
All this, of course, was expressed in the language of a peasant; but
such thoughts and sentiments, so unusual in a simple girl of the lower
class, struck Alexei with astonishment. He employed all his eloquence
to divert Akoulina from her purpose; he assured her that his intentions
were honourable, promised her that he would never give her cause to
repent, that he would obey her in everything, and earnestly entreated
her not to deprive him of the joy of seeing her alone, if only once a
day, or even only twice a week. He spoke the language of true passion,
and at that moment he was really in love. Liza listened to him in
silence.
“Give me your word,” said she at last, “that you will never come to the
village in search of me, and that you will never seek a meeting with me
except those that I shall appoint myself.”
Alexei swore by Holy Friday, but she stopped him with a smile.
“I do not want you to swear,” said she; “your mere word is sufficient.”
After that they began to converse together in a friendly manner,
strolling about the wood, until Liza said to him:
“It is time for me to return home.”
They separated, and when Alexei was left alone, he could not understand
how, in two interviews, a simple peasant girl had succeeded in
acquiring such influence over him. His relations with Akoulina had
for him all the charm of novelty, and although the injunctions of the
strange young girl appeared to him to be very severe, the thought
of breaking his word never once entered his mind. The fact was that
Alexei, in spite of his fatal ring, his mysterious correspondence and
his gloomy disenchantment, was a good and impulsive young fellow, with
a pure heart capable of enjoying the pleasures of innocence.
Were I to listen to my own wishes only, I would here enter into a
minute description of the interviews of the young people, of their
growing passion for each other, their confidences, occupations and
conversations; but I know that the greater part of my readers would not
share my satisfaction. Such details are usually considered tedious and
uninteresting, and therefore I will omit them, merely observing, that
before two months had elapsed, Alexei was already hopelessly in love,
and Liza equally so, though less demonstrative in revealing the fact.
Both were happy in the present and troubled themselves little about the
future.
The thought of indissoluble ties frequently passed through their minds,
but never had they spoken to each other about the matter. The reason
was plain: Alexei, however much attached he might be to his lovely
Akoulina, could not forget the distance that separated him from the
poor peasant girl; while Liza, knowing the hatred that existed between
their parents, did not dare to hope for a mutual reconciliation.
Moreover, her self-love was stimulated in secret by the obscure and
romantic hope of seeing at last the proprietor of Tougilovo at the feet
of the blacksmith’s daughter of Priloutchina. All at once an important
event occurred which threatened to interrupt their mutual relations.
One bright cold morning--such a morning as is very common during our
Russian autumn--Ivan Petrovitch Berestoff went out for a ride on
horseback, taking with him three pairs of hunting dogs, a gamekeeper
and several stable-boys with clappers. At the same time, Gregory
Ivanovitch Mouromsky, seduced by the beautiful weather, ordered his
bob-tailed mare to be saddled, and started out to visit his domains
cultivated in the English style. On approaching the wood, he perceived
his neighbour, sitting proudly on his horse, in his cloak lined with
fox-skin, waiting for a hare which his followers, with loud cries
and the rattling of their clappers, had started out of a thicket.
If Gregory Ivanovitch had foreseen this meeting, he would certainly
have proceeded in another direction, but he came upon Berestoff
so unexpectedly, that he suddenly found himself no farther than
the distance of a pistol-shot away from him. There was no help for
it: Mouromsky, like a civilized European, rode forward towards his
adversary and politely saluted him. Berestoff returned the salute with
the characteristic grace of a chained bear, who salutes the public in
obedience to the order of his master.
At that moment the hare darted out of the wood and started off across
the field. Berestoff and the gamekeeper raised a loud shout, let the
dogs loose, and then galloped off in pursuit. Mouromsky’s horse,
not being accustomed to hunting, took fright and bolted. Mouromsky,
who prided himself on being a good horseman, gave it full rein,
and inwardly rejoiced at the incident which delivered him from a
disagreeable companion. But the horse, reaching a ravine which it had
not previously noticed, suddenly sprang to one side, and Mouromsky was
thrown from the saddle. Striking the frozen ground with considerable
force, he lay there cursing his bob-tailed mare, which, as if
recovering from its fright, had suddenly come to a standstill as soon
as it felt that it was without a rider.
Ivan Petrovitch hastened towards him and inquired if he had injured
himself. In the meantime the gamekeeper had secured the guilty horse,
which he now led forward by the bridle. He helped Mouromsky into the
saddle, and Berestoff invited him to his house. Mouromsky could not
refuse the invitation, for he felt indebted to him; and so Berestoff
returned home, covered with glory for having hunted down a hare and for
bringing with him his adversary wounded and almost a prisoner of war.
The two neighbours took breakfast together and conversed with each
other in a very friendly manner. Mouromsky requested Berestoff to
lend him a _droshky_, for he was obliged to confess that, owing to
his bruises, he was not in a condition to return home on horseback.
Berestoff conducted him to the steps, and Mouromsky did not take
leave of him until he had obtained a promise from him that he would
come the next day in company with Alexei Ivanovitch, and dine in a
friendly way at Priloutchina. In this way was a deeply-rooted enmity
of long standing apparently brought to an end by the skittishness of a
bob-tailed mare.
Liza ran forward to meet Gregory Ivanovitch.
“What does this mean, papa?” said she with astonishment. “Why are you
walking lame? Where is your horse? Whose is this _droshky?”_
“You will never guess, my dear,” replied Gregory Ivanovitch; and then
he related to her everything that had happened.
Liza could not believe her ears. Without giving her time to collect
herself, Gregory Ivstpovitch then went on to inform her that the two
Berestoffs--father and son--would dine with them on the following day.
“What do you say?” she exclaimed, turning pale. “The Berestoffs, father
and son, will dine with us to-morrow! No, papa, you can do as you
please, but I shall not show myself.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” replied her father. “Since
when have you been so bashful? Or do you cherish an hereditary hatred
towards him like a heroine of romance? Enough, do not act the fool.”
“No, papa, not for anything in the world, not for any treasure would I
appear before the Berestoffs.”
Gregory Ivanovitch shrugged his shoulders, and did not dispute with her
any further, for he knew that by contradiction he would obtain nothing
from her. He therefore went to rest himself after his remarkable ride.
Lizaveta Gregorievna repaired to her room and summoned Nastia. They
both conversed together for a long time about the impending visit. What
would Alexei think if, in the well-bred young lady, he recognized his
Akoulina? What opinion would he have of her conduct, of her manners, of
her good sense? On the other hand, Liza wished very much to see what
impression would be produced upon him by a meeting so unexpected....
Suddenly an idea flashed through her mind. She communicated it to
Nastia; both felt delighted with it, and they resolved to carry it into
effect.
The next day at breakfast, Gregory Ivanovitch asked his daughter if she
still intended to avoid the Berestoffs.
“Papa,” replied Liza, “I will receive them if you wish it, but on one
condition, and that is, that however I may appear before them, or
whatever I may do, you will not be angry with me, or show the least
sign of astonishment or displeasure.”
“Some new freak!” said Gregory Ivanovitch, laughing. “Very well, very
well, I agree; do what you like, my dark-eyed romp.”
With these words he kissed her on the forehead, and Liza ran off to put
her plan into execution.
At two o’clock precisely, a Russian calèche drawn by six horses,
entered the courtyard and rounded the lawn. The elder Berestoff mounted
the steps with the assistance of two lackeys in the Mouromsky livery.
His son came after him on horseback, and both entered together into the
dining-room, where the table was already laid. Mouromsky received his
neighbours in the most gracious manner, proposed to them to inspect his
garden and park before dinner, and conducted them along paths carefully
kept and gravelled. The elder Berestoff inwardly deplored the time and
labour wasted in such useless fancies, but he held his tongue out of
politeness. His son shared neither the disapprobation of the economical
landowner, nor the enthusiasm of the vain-glorious Anglomaniac, but
waited with impatience for the appearance of his host’s daughter, of
whom he had heard a great deal; and although his heart, as we know,
was already engaged, youthful beauty always had a claim upon his
imagination.
Returning to the parlour, they all three sat down; and while the
old men recalled their young days, and related anecdotes of their
respective careers, Alexei considered in his mind what rôle he should
play in the presence of Liza. He came to the conclusion that an air of
cold indifference would be the most becoming under the circumstances,
and he prepared to act accordingly. The door opened; he turned his
head with such indifference, with such haughty carelessness, that the
heart of the most inveterate coquette would inevitably have shuddered.
Unfortunately, instead of Liza, it was old Miss Jackson, who, painted
and bedecked, entered the room with downcast eyes and with a low bow,
so that Alexei’s dignified military salute was lost upon her. He had
not succeeded in recovering from his confusion, when the door opened
again, and this time it was Liza herself who entered.
All rose; her father was just beginning to introduce his guests,
when suddenly he stopped short and bit his lips.... Liza, his
dark-complexioned Liza, was painted white up to the ears, and was more
bedizened than even Miss Jackson herself; false curls, much lighter
than her own hair, covered her head like the perruque of Louis the
Fourteenth; her sleeves _à l’imbécile_ stood out like the hooped skirts
of Madame de Pompadour; her figure was pinched in like the letter X,
and all her mother’s jewels, which had not yet found their way to the
pawnbroker’s, shone upon her fingers, her neck and in her ears.
Alexei could not possibly recognize his Akoulina in the grotesque and
brilliant young lady. His father kissed her hand, and he followed his
example, though much against his will; when he touched her little
white fingers, it seemed to him that they trembled. In the meantime
he succeeded in catching a glimpse of her little foot, intentionally
advanced and set off to advantage by the most coquettish shoe
imaginable. This reconciled him somewhat to the rest of her toilette.
As for the paint and powder, it must be confessed that, in the
simplicity of his heart, he had not noticed them at the first glance,
and afterwards had no suspicion of them. Gregory Ivanovitch remembered
his promise, and endeavoured not to show any astonishment; but his
daughter’s freak seemed to him so amusing, that he could scarcely
contain himself. But the person who felt no inclination to laugh was
the affected English governess. She had a shrewd suspicion that the
paint and powder had been extracted from her chest of drawers, and the
deep flush of anger was distinctly visible beneath the artificial
whiteness of her face. She darted angry glances at the young madcap,
who, reserving her explanations for another time, pretended that she
did not notice them.
They sat down to table. Alexei continued to play his rôle of assumed
indifference and absence of mind. Liza put on an air of affectation,
spoke through her teeth, and only in French. Her father kept constantly
looking at her, not understanding her aim, but finding it all
exceedingly amusing. The English governess fumed with rage and said
not a word. Ivan Petrovitch alone seemed at home: he ate, like two,
drank heavily, laughed at his own jokes, and grew more talkative, and
hilarious at every moment.
At last they all rose up from the table; the guests took their
departure, and Gregory Ivanovitch gave free vent to his laughter and to
his interrogations.
“What put the idea into your head of acting the fool like that with
them?” he said to Liza. “But do you know what? The paint suits you
admirably. I do not wish to fathom the mysteries of a lady’s toilette,
but if I were in your place, I would very soon begin to paint; not too
much, of course, but just a little.”
Liza was enchanted with the success of her stratagem. She embraced
her father, promised him that she would consider his advice, and then
hastened to conciliate the indignant Miss Jackson, who, with great
reluctance consented to open the door and listen to her explanations.
Liza was ashamed to appear before strangers with her dark complexion;
she had not dared to ask she felt sure that dear, good Miss Jackson
would pardon her, etc., etc. Miss Jackson, feeling convinced that Liza
had not wished to make her a laughing-stock by imitating her, calmed
down, kissed her, and as a token of reconciliation, made her a present
of a small pot of English paint, which Liza accepted with every
appearance of sincere gratitude.
The reader will readily imagine that Liza lost no time in repairing to
the rendezvous in the little wood the next morning.
“You were at our master’s yesterday,” she said at once to Alexei: “what
do you think of our young mistress?”
Alexei replied that he had not observed her.
“That’s a pity!” replied Liza.
“Why so?” asked Alexei.
“Because I wanted to ask you if it is true what they say----”
“What do they say?”
“Is it true, as they say, that I am very much like her?”
“What nonsense! She is a perfect monstrosity compared with you.”
“Oh, sir, it is very wrong of you to speak like that. Our young
mistress is so fair and so stylish! How could I be compared wither!”
Alexei vowed to her that she was more beautiful than all the fair young
ladies in creation, and in order to pacify her completely, he began to
describe her mistress in such comical terms, that Liza laughed heartily.
“But,” said she with a sigh, “even though our young mistress may be
ridiculous, I am but a poor ignorant thing in comparison with her.”
“Oh!” said Alexei; “is that anything to break your heart about? If you
wish it, I will soon teach you to read and write.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Liza, “why should I not try?”
“Very well, my dear; we will commence at once.”
They sat down. Alexei drew from his pocket a pencil and note-book, and
Akoulina learnt the alphabet with astonishing rapidity. Alexei could
not sufficiently admire her intelligence. The following morning she
wished to try to write. At first the pencil refused to obey her, but
after a few minutes she was able to trace the letters with tolerable
accuracy.
“It is really wonderful!” said Alexei. “Our method certainly produces
quicker results than the Lancaster system.”[5]
And indeed, at the third lesson Akoulina began to spell through
“Nathalie the Boyard’s Daughter,” interrupting her reading by
observations which really filled Alexei with astonishment, and she
filled a whole sheet of paper with aphorisms drawn from the same story.
A week went by, and a correspondence was established between them.
Their letter-box was the hollow of an old oak-tree, and Nastia acted
as their messenger. Thither Alexei carried his letters written
in a bold round hand, and there he found on plain blue paper the
delicately-traced strokes of his beloved. Akoulina perceptibly began
to acquire an elegant style of expression, and her mental faculties
commenced to develop themselves with astonishing rapidity.
Meanwhile, the recently-formed acquaintance between Ivan Petrovitch
Berestoff and Gregory Ivanovitch Mouromsky soon became transformed into
a sincere friendship, under the following circumstances. Mouromsky
frequently reflected that, on the death of Ivan Petrovitch, all his
possessions would pass into the hands of Alexei Ivanovitch, in which
case the latter would be one of the wealthiest landed proprietors
in the government, and there would be nothing to hinder him from
marrying Liza. The elder Berestoff, on his side, although recognizing
in his neighbour a certain extravagance (or, as he termed it, English
folly), was perfectly ready to admit that he possessed many excellent
qualities, as for example, his rare tact. Gregory Ivanovitch was
closely related to Count Pronsky, a man of distinction and of great
influence. The Count could be of great service to Alexei, and Mouromsky
(so thought Ivan Petrovitch) would doubtless rejoice to see his
daughter marry so advantageously. By dint of constantly dwelling upon
this idea, the two old men came at last to communicate their thoughts
to one another. They embraced each other, both promised to do their
best to arrange the matter, and they immediately set to work, each on
his own side. Mouromsky foresaw that he would have some difficulty in
persuading his Betsy to become more intimately acquainted with Alexei,
whom she had not seen since the memorable dinner. It seemed to him that
they had not been particularly well pleased with each other; at least
Alexei had not paid any further visits to Priloutchina, and Liza had
retired to her room every time that Ivan Petrovitch had honoured them
with a visit.
“But,” thought Gregory Ivanovitch, “if Alexei came to see us every day,
Betsy could not help falling in love with him. That is the natural
order of things. Time will settle everything.”
Ivan Petrovitch was no less uneasy about the success of his designs.
That same evening he summoned his son into his cabinet, lit his pipe,
and, after a long pause, said:
“Well, Alesha,[6] what do you think about doing? You have not said
anything for a long time about the military service. Or has the Hussar
uniform lost its charm for you?”
“No, father,” replied Alexei respectfully; “but I see that you do not
like the idea of my entering the Hussars, and it is my duty to obey
you.”
“Good,” replied Ivan Petrovitch; “I see that you are an obedient son;
that is very consoling to me.... On my side, I do not wish to compel
you; I do not want to force you to enter ... at once ... into the civil
service, but, in the meanwhile, I intend you to get married.”
“To whom, father?” asked Alexei in astonishment.
“To Lizaveta Gregorievna Mouromsky,” replied Ivan Petrovitch. “She is a
charming bride, is she not?”
“Father, I have not thought of marriage yet.”
“You have not thought of it, and therefore I have thought of it for
you.”
“As you please, but I do not care for Liza Mouromsky in the least.”
“You will get to like her afterwards. Love comes with time.”