Time passed slowly. All was quiet. In the drawing room it struck twelve; in all the rooms one after another the clocks rang twelve—and all fell silent again. Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove. He was calm; his heart beat regularly, as in a man who has ventured upon something dangerous but necessary. The clocks struck one and then two in the morning—and he heard the distant clatter of a carriage. An involuntary agitation came over him. The carriage drove up and stopped. He heard the clatter of the flipped-down steps. There was bustling in the house. Servants ran, voices rang out, and the house lit up. Three elderly maids rushed into the bedroom, and the countess, barely alive, came in and sank into the Voltaire armchair. Hermann watched through a chink: Lizaveta Ivanovna walked past him. Hermann heard her hurrying steps on the stairs. Something like remorse of conscience stirred in his heart and died down again. He turned to stone.
The countess started to undress before the mirror. They unpinned her bonnet, decorated with roses; took the powdered wig from her gray and close-cropped head. Pins poured down like rain around her. The yellow gown embroidered with silver fell at her swollen feet. Hermann witnessed the repulsive mysteries of her toilette; finally, the countess was left in a bed jacket and nightcap; in this attire, more suitable to her old age, she seemed less horrible and ugly.
Like all old people generally, the countess suffered from insomnia. Having undressed, she sat down by the window in the Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken away, the room was again lit only by the icon lamp. The countess sat all yellow, moving her pendulous lips, swaying from side to side. Her dull eyes showed a complete absence of thought; looking at her, one might have thought that the frightful old woman’s swaying came not from her will, but from the action of some hidden galvanism.
Suddenly that dead face changed inexplicably. Her lips stopped moving, her eyes came to life: before the countess stood an unknown man.
“Don’t be afraid, for God’s sake, don’t be afraid!” he said in a clear and low voice. “I have no intention of harming you; I’ve come to beg you for a favor.”
The old woman silently looked at him and seemed not to hear him. Hermann thought she might be deaf, and, bending close to her ear, repeated the same words. The old woman was silent as before.
“You can make for the happiness of my life,” Hermann continued, “and it won’t cost you anything: I know that you can guess three cards in a row…”
Hermann stopped. The countess seemed to have understood what was asked of her; it seemed she was seeking words for her reply.
“That was a joke,” she said at last. “I swear to you! It was a joke!”
“This is no joking matter,” Hermann retorted angrily. “Remember Chaplitsky, whom you helped to win back his losses.”
The countess was visibly disconcerted. Her features showed strong emotion, but she soon lapsed into her former insensibility.
“Can you name those three sure cards for me?” Hermann continued.
The countess said nothing; Hermann went on.
“Whom are you keeping your secret for? Your grandchildren? They’re rich without that; and besides, they don’t know the value of money. Your three cards won’t help a squanderer. A man who can’t hold on to his paternal inheritance will die a pauper anyway, for all the devil’s efforts. I’m not a squanderer; I know the value of money. Your three cards won’t be wasted on me. Well?…”
He stopped and waited in trembling for her reply. The countess said nothing; Hermann went on his knees.
“If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” he said, “if you remember its raptures, if you smiled even once at the cry of your newborn son, if anything human has ever beaten in your breast, I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a mistress, a mother—by all that is sacred in life—do not refuse my request! Reveal your secret to me! What good is it to you?…Perhaps it’s connected with a terrible sin, with the forfeit of eternal bliss, a pact with the devil…Think: you’re old; you don’t have long to live—I’m ready to take your sin upon my soul. Only reveal your secret to me. Think: a man’s happiness is in your hands; not only I, but my children, my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, will bless your memory and revere it as sacred…”
The old woman did not say a word.
Hermann stood up.
“Old witch!” he said, clenching his teeth. “Then I’ll make you answer…”
With those words he took a pistol from his pocket.
At the sight of the pistol, the countess showed strong emotion for the second time. She shook her head and raised her hand as if to shield herself from the shot…Then she fell backwards and remained motionless.
“Stop being childish,” said Hermann, taking her hand. “I ask you for the last time: will you name your three cards for me—yes or no?”
The countess did not reply. Hermann saw that she had died.
IV
7 Mai 18––
Homme sans moeurs et sans religion!*5
CORRESPONDENCE9
Lizaveta Ivanovna, still in her ball gown, sat in her room deep in thought. On coming home she had hastily dismissed the sleepy maid, who had reluctantly offered her services, saying that she would undress herself, and, trembling, had gone into her room, hoping to find Hermann there and wishing not to find him. With the first glance she was convinced of his absence, and she thanked fate for the obstacle that had prevented their rendezvous. She sat down without undressing and began to think back over all the circumstances that had lured her so far in so short a time. Three weeks had not passed since she first saw the young man from the window—and she was already in correspondence with him, and he had managed to obtain a night rendezvous from her! She knew his name only because some of his letters were signed; she had never spoken with him, nor heard his voice, nor heard anything about him…until that evening. Strange thing! That same evening, at the ball, Tomsky, pouting at the young princess Polina, who, contrary to her usual habit, was flirting with someone else, had wished to revenge himself by a show of indifference: he had invited Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced an endless mazurka with her. He joked all the while about her partiality for engineer officers, assured her that he knew much more than she might suppose, and some of his jokes were so well aimed that Lizaveta Ivanovna thought several times that her secret was known to him.
“Who told you all that?” she asked, laughing.
“A friend of a person known to you,” Tomsky replied, “a very remarkable man!”
“Who is this remarkable man?”
“His name is Hermann.”
Lizaveta Ivanovna said nothing, but her hands and feet turned to ice…
“This Hermann,” Tomsky went on, “is a truly romantic character: he has the profile of Napoleon and the soul of Mephistopheles. I think there are at least three evil deeds on his conscience. How pale you’ve turned!…”
“I have a headache…What did Hermann—or whatever his name is—tell you?…”
“Hermann is very displeased with his friend: he says that in his place he would act quite differently…I even suspect that Hermann himself has designs on you; at least he’s far from indifferent when he listens to his friend’s amorous exclamations.”
“But where has he seen me?”
“In church, maybe—or on a promenade!…God knows with him! Maybe in your room while you were asleep: he’s quite capable of…”
Three ladies who came up to them with the question Oubli ou regret?10 interrupted the conversation, which had become agonizingly interesting for Lizaveta Ivanovna.
The lady Tomsky chose was the princess Polina herself. She managed to have a talk with him, making an extra turn with him and twirling an extra time in front of her chair. Going back to his place, Tomsky no longer thought either of Hermann or of Lizaveta Ivanovna. She was intent on renewing their interrupted conversation; but the mazurka ended, and soon afterwards the old countess left.