LA BRETONNE
ANDRÉ THEURIET 1339
WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
EDMOND ABOUT 1349
THE GRAND MARRIAGE
LUDOVIC HALÉVY 1379
THE ACCURSED HOUSE
ÉMILE GABORIAU 1415
THE FÊTE AT COQUEVILLE
ÉMILE ZOLA 1427
THE LOST CHILD
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE 1471
PUTOIS
ANATOLE FRANCE 1495
SAC-AU-DOS
JORIS KARL HUYSMANS 1515
“BONJOUR, MONSIEUR”
JEAN RICHEPIN 1559
THE BIT OF STRING
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1571
THE NECKLACE
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1581
THE WALL OPPOSITE
PIERRE LOTI 1595
THE ANCESTOR
PAUL BOURGET 1605
WHEN HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
HENRI LAVEDAN 1639
A GENTLEMAN FINDS A WATCH
GEORGES COURTELINE 1651
A YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY
MARCEL PRÉVOST 1659
THE SIGN OF THE KEY AND THE CROSS
HENRI DE RÉGNIER 1671
THE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR
ALPHONSE ALLAIS 1685
_PREFACE_
_When the five-volume collection known as “Short Story Classics
(American)” was planned, it was entirely evident that it should be
supplemented by a collection of the best examples of the short story to
be found in foreign literatures._
_The five volumes now offered to the public are designed to supply
this lack. They contain seventy-eight short stories, chosen from the
literatures of France, Russia, Germany, Italy, Norway, Sweden, Denmark,
and Finland--works of importance that have made their mark in the
literary world._
_The aim has been not only to represent the most widely sympathetic
writers, but to select their most generally interesting as well as
characteristic stories. The stories have all been written within the
last seventy-five years, which has this advantage for the reader, that
the scope of the collection may be said to lie within present-day
interests._
_None of the stories by the following authors appear in any other
collection:_
_FRENCH_
_Honoré de Balzac_, _Eugène Scribe_, _Alfred de Vigny_, _Victor Hugo_,
_Alexandre Dumas_, _Prosper Mérimée_, _Jules Janin_, _George Sand_,
_Alfred de Musset_, _Théophile Gautier_, _Octave Feuillet_, _Alexandre
Dumas (Fils)_, _Erckmann-Chatrian_, _Alphonse Daudet_, _André
Theuriet_, _Ludovic Halévy_, _Émile Gaboriau_, _Émile Zola_, _Jules
Claretie_, _François Coppée_, _Anatole France_, _Joris Karl Huysmans_,
_Jean Richepin_, _Pierre Loti_, _Paul Bourget_, _Henri de Régnier_,
_Henri Lavedan_, _Marcel Prévost_, _Georges Courteline_, _Alphonse
Allais_.
_RUSSIAN_
_Poushkin_, _Gogol_, _Turgenev_, _Dostoievski_, _Tolstoi_, _Korolénko_,
_Garshin_, _Potapenko_, _Chekhov_, _Chirikov_, _Teleshov_, _Maxim
Gorki_, “_Skitalitz_,” _Andreiev_.
_ITALIAN AND SCANDINAVIAN_
_Enrico Castelnuovo_, _Giovanni Verga_, _Antonio Fogaszaro_, _Edmondo
de Amicis_, _Matilda Serao_, _Gabriele d’Annunzio_, _Luigi Pirandello_,
_Grazia Deledda_, _Björnson_, _Holger Drachmann_, _Jacob Ahrenberg_,
_Jens Peter Jacobsen_, _Alexander Kielland_, _August Strindberg_,
_Hermann Bang_, _Selma Lagerlöf_.
_GERMAN_
_Heinrich Zschokke_, _Wilhelm Heinrich von Riehl_, _Paul Heyse_,
_Ferdinand von Saar_, _Leopold von Sacher-Masoch_, _Rudolf Baumbach_,
_Ernst von Wildenbruch_, _Max Nordau_, _Hermann Sudermann_, _Gabriele
Reuter_, _Ludwig Fulda_, _Arthur Schnitzler_, _and Clara Viebig_.
_About half of the stories have been especially translated for this
collection, and some of them now appear in English for the first time.
Among these will be found some by the more recent writers in Germany
and Russia, two very interesting groups of moderns whose work has not
received as much attention at the hands of the public as it would seem
to merit._
_In only two or three cases, where the point of view was likely to fail
of appreciation by American readers, have the stories been abbreviated
or otherwise altered; and attention has been called to this in the
accompanying note._
_The notes which preceded the stories in “Short Story Classics
(American)” proved to be an appreciated and even popular feature, and
it is hoped that those written for the present collection may prove
equally acceptable._
_If any one country more than another can be said to excel in the use
and development of the modern short story form, it is France. The
literatures of Russia, Italy, Germany, Norway, Sweden, and Denmark,
as well as that of the United States, have all been influenced to a
greater or lesser extent by the art of Balzac, Gautier, Mérimée, and De
Maupassant, for in France short story writing may be said to be based
on a theory of art, and to be, consequently, the result of conviction._
_This theory of art, apart from the questions of form which it
involves, in themselves important considerations, affords great
freedom to the writer in the choice of subject-matter and the method
of treatment. It presupposes the artist’s right to his point of
view. It presupposes an audience more keenly alive to life and the
manifestations of life than is characteristic of the general reading
public in America at the present time. Generalizations like these are
at the best unsatisfactory, since the differences alluded to must be
apprehended and can not be well expounded; they will have abundantly
served their purpose if they awaken curiosity and prompt the reader
unfamiliar with the short story in foreign literatures, and especially
in the literature of France, to make his own comparisons._
_All over the world the literary main current seems to be toward the
development of the realism of twenty-five years ago. From Denmark,
where the trace is slightest, to Russia, where it is most brutal, the
best work is apparently being done by the realists. In France there is
a decided reaction against strenuous realism, but it is principally
the reaction of a few individuals, and among these the most prominent
is Anatole France. He is not any the less a realist, in the sense of
being true to nature, because his intelligence is concerned with an
appreciation of something else besides the material side of life._
_To those who are familiar with the work of Émile Zola, it seems
desirable to explain that “Jacques Damour,” a really great story, was
too long to be included in this collection. An interesting comparison
can be made between “The Bit of String,” by Guy de Maupassant, and the
two stories which it inspired, “The Slanderer,” by Anton Chekhov, and
“The End of Candia,” by Gabriele d’Annunzio._
_Even the most casual reader must surely be impressed with the
extraordinary vitality of these stories and their likeness to life. It
is a likeness that is not always optimistic, it is true, as in the case
of many of the Russian writers, for example, but it seldom depends on
a misstatement of the facts of experience to create its effect, and is
seldom lacking in integrity of workmanship._
_I am glad of an opportunity to record my appreciation of the
intelligent and interested assistance rendered by Mr. R. W. Howes 3d,
in preparing these volumes for the press._
_William Patten._
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
BY ALEXANDER SERGEIEVITCH POUSHKIN
[Illustration]
_Alexander Poushkin (born 1799, died 1837) was the greatest genius
among the Russian poets. Though born of a noble family, thick
lips and crisp, curly hair showed his descent from an Abyssinian
negro slave ancestor on his mother’s side. As a poet his work has
been compared with that of Byron, of which he was frankly a close
student. Chronologically he comes first in the list of Russian
prose writers, a list that includes Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoievski,
and Tolstoi. “The Queen of Spades” is one of the best and most
characteristic of his short stories._
[Illustration]
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
BY ALEXANDER POUSHKIN
Translated by H. Twitehell. Copyright, 1901,
by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
At the house of Naroumov, a cavalry officer, the long winter night had
been passed in gambling. At five in the morning breakfast was served
to the weary players. The winners ate with relish; the losers, on the
contrary, pushed back their plates and sat brooding gloomily. Under the
influence of the good wine, however, the conversation became general.
“Well, Sourine?” said the host inquiringly.
“Oh, I lost as usual. My luck is abominable. No matter how cool I keep,
I never win.”
“How is it, Herman, that you never touch a card?” remarked one of the
men, addressing a young officer of the Engineering Corps. “Here you
are with the rest of us at five o’clock in the morning, and you have
neither played nor bet all night.”
“Play interests me greatly,” replied the person addressed, “but
I hardly care to sacrifice the necessaries of life for uncertain
superfluities.”
“Herman is a German, therefore economical; that explains it,” said
Tomsky. “But the person I can’t quite understand is my grandmother, the
Countess Anna Fedorovna.”
“Why?” inquired a chorus of voices.
“I can’t understand why my grandmother never gambles.”
“I don’t see anything very striking in the fact that a woman of eighty
refuses to gamble,” objected Naroumov.
“Have you never heard her story?”
“No.”
“Well, then, listen to it. To begin with, sixty years ago my
grandmother went to Paris, where she was all the fashion. People
crowded each other in the streets to get a chance to see the ‘Muscovite
Venus,’ as she was called. All the great ladies played faro, then.
On one occasion, while playing with the Duke of Orleans, she lost
an enormous sum. She told her husband of the debt, but he refused
outright to pay it. Nothing could induce him to change his mind on the
subject, and grandmother was at her wits’ ends. Finally, she remembered
a friend of hers, Count Saint-Germain. You must have heard of him,
as many wonderful stories have been told about him. He is said to
have discovered the elixir of life, the philosopher’s stone, and many
other equally marvelous things. He had money at his disposal, and my
grandmother knew it. She sent him a note asking him to come to see her.
He obeyed her summons and found her in great distress. She painted the
cruelty of her husband in the darkest colors, and ended by telling the
Count that she depended upon his friendship and generosity.
“‘I could lend you the money,’ replied the Count, after a moment of
thoughtfulness, ‘but I know that you would not enjoy a moment’s rest
until you had returned it; it would only add to your embarrassment.
There is another way of freeing yourself.’
“‘But I have no money at all,’ insisted my grandmother.
“‘There is no need of money. Listen to me.’
“The Count then told her a secret which any of us would give a good
deal to know.”
The young gamesters were all attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, took a few
whiffs, then continued:
“The next evening, grandmother appeared at Versailles at the Queen’s
gaming-table. The Duke of Orleans was the dealer. Grandmother made some
excuse for not having brought any money, and began to punt. She chose
three cards in succession, again and again, winning every time, and was
soon out of debt.”
“A fable,” remarked Herman; “perhaps the cards were marked.”
“I hardly think so,” replied Tomsky, with an air of importance.
“So you have a grandmother who knows three winning cards, and you
haven’t found out the magic secret.”
“I must say I have not. She had four sons, one of them being my
father, all of whom are devoted to play; she never told the secret to
one of them. But my uncle told me this much, on his word of honor.
Tchaplitzky, who died in poverty after having squandered millions, lost
at one time, at play, nearly three hundred thousand rubles. He was
desperate and grandmother took pity on him. She told him the three
cards, making him swear never to use them again. He returned to the
game, staked fifty thousand rubles on each card, and came out ahead,
after paying his debts.”
As day was dawning the party now broke up, each one draining his glass
and taking his leave.
* * * * *
The Countess Anna Fedorovna was seated before her mirror in her
dressing-room. Three women were assisting at her toilet. The old
Countess no longer made the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she
still clung to all the habits of her youth, and spent as much time at
her toilet as she had done sixty years before. At the window a young
girl, her ward, sat at her needle-work.
“Good afternoon, grandmother,” cried a young officer, who had just
entered the room. “I have come to ask a favor of you.”
“What, Pavel?”
“I want to be allowed to present one of my friends to you, and to take
you to the ball on Tuesday night.”
“Take me to the ball and present him to me there.”
After a few more remarks the officer walked up to the window where
Lisaveta Ivanovna sat.
“Whom do you wish to present?” asked the girl.
“Naroumov; do you know him?”
“No; is he a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“An engineer?”
“No; why do you ask?”
The girl smiled and made no reply.
Pavel Tomsky took his leave, and, left to herself, Lisaveta glanced
out of the window. Soon, a young officer appeared at the corner of the
street; the girl blushed and bent her head low over her canvas.
This appearance of the officer had become a daily occurrence. The man
was totally unknown to her, and as she was not accustomed to coquetting
with the soldiers she saw on the street, she hardly knew how to explain
his presence. His persistence finally roused an interest entirely
strange to her. One day, she even ventured to smile upon her admirer,
for such he seemed to be.
The reader need hardly be told that the officer was no other than
Herman, the would-be gambler, whose imagination had been strongly
excited by the story told by Tomsky of the three magic cards.
“Ah,” he thought, “if the old Countess would only reveal the secret to
me. Why not try to win her good-will and appeal to her sympathy?”
With this idea in mind, he took up his daily station before the house,
watching the pretty face at the window, and trusting to fate to bring
about the desired acquaintance.
One day, as Lisaveta was standing on the pavement about to enter the
carriage after the Countess, she felt herself jostled and a note was
thrust into her hand. Turning, she saw the young officer at her elbow.
As quick as thought, she put the note in her glove and entered the
carriage. On her return from the drive, she hastened to her chamber to
read the missive, in a state of excitement mingled with fear. It was
a tender and respectful declaration of affection, copied word for word
from a German novel. Of this fact, Lisa was, of course, ignorant.
The young girl was much impressed by the missive, but she felt that
the writer must not be encouraged. She therefore wrote a few lines of
explanation and, at the first opportunity, dropped it, with the letter,
out of the window. The officer hastily crossed the street, picked up
the papers and entered a shop to read them.
In no wise daunted by this rebuff, he found the opportunity to send
her another note in a few days. He received no reply, but, evidently
understanding the female heart, he persevered, begging for an
interview. He was rewarded at last by the following:
“To-night we go to the ambassador’s ball. We shall remain until two
o’clock. I can arrange for a meeting in this way. After our departure,
the servants will probably all go out, or go to sleep. At half-past
eleven enter the vestibule boldly, and if you see any one, inquire
for the Countess; if not, ascend the stairs, turn to the left and go
on until you come to a door, which opens into her bed-chamber. Enter
this room and behind a screen you will find another door leading to
a corridor; from this a spiral staircase leads to my sitting-room. I
shall expect to find you there on my return.”
Herman trembled like a leaf as the appointed hour drew near. He obeyed
instructions fully, and, as he met no one, he reached the old lady’s
bed-chamber without difficulty. Instead of going out of the small door
behind the screen, however, he concealed himself in a closet to await
the return of the old Countess.
The hours dragged slowly by; at last he heard the sound of wheels.
Immediately lamps were lighted and servants began moving about. Finally
the old woman tottered into the room, completely exhausted. Her women
removed her wraps and proceeded to get her in readiness for the night.
Herman watched the proceedings with a curiosity not unmingled with
superstitious fear. When at last she was attired in cap and gown, the
old woman looked less uncanny than when she wore her ball-dress of blue
brocade.
She sat down in an easy chair beside a table, as she was in the habit
of doing before retiring, and her women withdrew. As the old lady sat
swaying to and fro, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, Herman
crept out of his hiding-place.
At the slight noise the old woman opened her eyes, and gazed at the
intruder with a half-dazed expression.
“Have no fear, I beg of you,” said Herman, in a calm voice. “I have not
come to harm you, but to ask a favor of you instead.”
The Countess looked at him in silence, seemingly without comprehending
him. Herman thought she might be deaf, so he put his lips close to her
ear and repeated his remark. The listener remained perfectly mute.
“You could make my fortune without its costing you anything,” pleaded
the young man; “only tell me the three cards which are sure to win,
and--”
Herman paused as the old woman opened her lips as if about to speak.
“It was only a jest; I swear to you, it was only a jest,” came from the
withered lips.
“There was no jesting about it. Remember Tchaplitzky, who, thanks to
you, was able to pay his debts.”
An expression of interior agitation passed over the face of the old
woman; then she relapsed into her former apathy.
“Will you tell me the names of the magic cards, or not?” asked Herman
after a pause.
There was no reply.
The young man then drew a pistol from his pocket, exclaiming: “You old
witch, I’ll force you to tell me!”
At the sight of the weapon the Countess gave a second sign of life. She
threw back her head and put out her hands as if to protect herself;
then they dropped and she sat motionless.
Herman grasped her arm roughly, and was about to renew his threats,
when he saw that she was dead!
* * * * *
Seated in her room, still in her ball-dress, Lisaveta gave herself up
to her reflections. She had expected to find the young officer there,
but she felt relieved to see that he was not.
Strangely enough, that very night at the ball, Tomsky had rallied her
about her preference for the young officer, assuring her that he knew
more than she supposed he did.
“Of whom are you speaking?” she had asked in alarm, fearing her
adventure had been discovered.
“Of the remarkable man,” was the reply. “His name is Herman.”
Lisa made no reply.
“This Herman,” continued Tomsky, “is a romantic character; he has the
profile of a Napoleon and the heart of a Mephistopheles. It is said he
has at least three crimes on his conscience. But how pale you are.”
“It is only a slight headache. But why do you talk to me of this
Herman?”
“Because I believe he has serious intentions concerning you.”
“Where has he seen me?”
“At church, perhaps, or on the street.”
The conversation was interrupted at this point, to the great regret of
the young girl. The words of Tomsky made a deep impression upon her,
and she realized how imprudently she had acted. She was thinking of
all this and a great deal more when the door of her apartment suddenly
opened, and Herman stood before her. She drew back at sight of him,
trembling violently.
“Where have you been?” she asked in a frightened whisper.
“In the bed-chamber of the Countess. She is dead,” was the calm reply.
“My God! What are you saying?” cried the girl.
“Furthermore, I believe that I was the cause of her death.”
The words of Tomsky flashed through Lisa’s mind.
Herman sat down and told her all. She listened with a feeling of terror
and disgust. So those passionate letters, that audacious pursuit were
not the result of tenderness and love. It was money that he desired.
The poor girl felt that she had in a sense been an accomplice in the
death of her benefactress. She began to weep bitterly. Herman regarded
her in silence.
“You are a monster!” exclaimed Lisa, drying her eyes.
“I didn’t intend to kill her; the pistol was not even loaded.”
“How are you going to get out of the house?” inquired Lisa. “It is
nearly daylight. I intended to show you the way to a secret staircase,
while the Countess was asleep, as we would have to cross her chamber.
Now I am afraid to do so.”
“Direct me, and I will find the way alone,” replied Herman.
She gave him minute instructions and a key with which to open the
street door. The young man pressed the cold, inert hand, then went out.
The death of the Countess had surprised no one, as it had long been
expected. Her funeral was attended by every one of note in the
vicinity. Herman mingled with the throng without attracting any
especial attention. After all the friends had taken their last look at
the dead face, the young man approached the bier. He prostrated himself
on the cold floor, and remained motionless for a long time. He rose at
last with a face almost as pale as that of the corpse itself, and went
up the steps to look into the casket. As he looked down it seemed to
him that the rigid face returned his glance mockingly, closing one eye.
He turned abruptly away, made a false step, and fell to the floor. He
was picked up, and, at the same moment, Lisaveta was carried out in a
faint.
Herman did not recover his usual composure during the entire day. He
dined alone at an out-of-the-way restaurant, and drank a great deal, in
the hope of stifling his emotion. The wine only served to stimulate his
imagination. He returned home and threw himself down on his bed without
undressing.
During the night he awoke with a start; the moon shone into his
chamber, making everything plainly visible. Some one looked in at the
window, then quickly disappeared. He paid no attention to this, but
soon he heard the vestibule door open. He thought it was his orderly,
returning late, drunk as usual. The step was an unfamiliar one, and he
heard the shuffling sound of loose slippers.
The door of his room opened, and a woman in white entered. She came
close to the bed, and the terrified man recognized the Countess.
“I have come to you against my will,” she said abruptly; “but I was
commanded to grant your request. The three, seven, and ace in succession
are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse between the use
of each card, and after the three have been used you must never play
again.”
The fantom then turned and walked away. Herman heard the outside door
close, and again saw the form pass the window.
He rose and went out into the hall, where his orderly lay asleep on the
floor. The door was closed. Finding no trace of a visitor, he returned
to his room, lit his candle, and wrote down what he had just heard.
Two fixed ideas can not exist in the brain at the same time any more
than two bodies can occupy the same point in space. The three, seven,
and ace soon chased away the thoughts of the dead woman, and all other
thoughts from the brain of the young officer. All his ideas merged
into a single one: how to turn to advantage the secret paid for so
dearly. He even thought of resigning his commission and going to Paris
to force a fortune from conquered fate. Chance rescued him from his
embarrassment.
Tchekalinsky, a man who had passed his whole life at cards, opened
a club at St. Petersburg. His long experience secured for him the
confidence of his companions, and his hospitality and genial humor
conciliated society.
The gilded youth flocked around him, neglecting society, preferring the
charms of faro to those of their sweethearts. Naroumov invited Herman
to accompany him to the club, and the young man accepted the invitation
only too willingly.
The two officers found the apartments full. Generals and statesmen
played whist; young men lounged on sofas, eating ices or smoking. In
the principal salon stood a long table, at which about twenty men sat
playing faro, the host of the establishment being the banker.
He was a man of about sixty, gray-haired and respectable. His ruddy
face shone with genial humor; his eyes sparkled and a constant smile
hovered around his lips.
Naroumov presented Herman. The host gave him a cordial handshake,
begged him not to stand upon ceremony, and returned to his dealing.
More than thirty cards were already on the table. Tchekalinsky paused
after each coup, to allow the punters time to recognize their gains or
losses, politely answering all questions and constantly smiling.
After the deal was over, the cards were shuffled and the game began
again.
“Permit me to choose a card,” said Herman, stretching out his hand over
the head of a portly gentleman, to reach a livret. The banker bowed
without replying.
Herman chose a card, and wrote the amount of his stake upon it with a
piece of chalk.
“How much is that?” asked the banker; “excuse me, sir, but I do not see
well.”
“Forty thousand rubles,” said Herman coolly.
All eyes were instantly turned upon the speaker.
“He has lost his wits,” thought Naroumov.
“Allow me to observe,” said Tchekalinsky, with his eternal smile, “that
your stake is excessive.”
“What of it?” replied Herman, nettled. “Do you accept it or not?”
The banker nodded in assent. “I have only to remind you that the cash
will be necessary; of course your word is good, but in order to keep
the confidence of my patrons, I prefer the ready money.”
Herman took a bank-check from his pocket and handed it to his host. The
latter examined it attentively, then laid it on the card chosen.
He began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a three.
“The three wins,” said Herman, showing the card he held--a three.
A murmur ran through the crowd. Tchekalinsky frowned for a second only,
then his smile returned. He took a roll of bank-bills from his pocket
and counted out the required sum. Herman received it and at once left
the table.
The next evening saw him at the place again. Every one eyed him
curiously, and Tchekalinsky greeted him cordially.
He selected his card and placed upon it his fresh stake. The banker
began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a seven.
Herman then showed his card--a seven spot. The onlookers exclaimed, and
the host was visibly disturbed. He counted out ninety-four thousand
rubles and passed them to Herman, who accepted them without showing the
least surprise, and at once withdrew.
The following evening he went again. His appearance was the signal for
the cessation of all occupation, every one being eager to watch the
developments of events. He selected his card--an ace.
The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace.
“The ace wins,” remarked Herman, turning up his card without glancing
at it.
“Your queen is killed,” remarked Tchekalinsky quietly.
Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had selected,
but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It seemed
impossible that he could have made such a mistake. As he stared at the
card it seemed to him that the queen winked one eye at him mockingly.
“The old woman!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid terror.
When he left the table, all made way for him to pass; the cards were
shuffled, and the gambling went on.
Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital at Oboukov,
where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly murmuring in a monotonous
tone: “The three, seven, ace! The three, seven, queen!”