With those words she quietly turned around, went to the door, and disappeared, shuffling her slippers. Hermann heard the door in the front hall slam, and saw someone peek again through his window.
For a long time Hermann could not come to his senses. He went to the other room. His orderly was asleep on the floor; Hermann was barely able to wake him up. He was drunk as usuaclass="underline" there was no getting any sense out of him. The door to the front hall was locked. Hermann went back to his room, lit a candle, and wrote down his vision.
VI
“Attendez!”
“How dare you say attendez to me?”
“Your Excellency, I said attendez, sir!”13
Two fixed ideas cannot coexist in the moral realm, just as in the physical world two bodies cannot occupy the same place. Three, seven, ace—soon eclipsed the image of the dead old woman in Hermann’s imagination. Three, seven, ace—never left his head and hovered on his lips. Seeing a young girl, he said: “How shapely! A real three of hearts!” When asked, “What time is it?” he said, “Five minutes to the seven.” Every pot-bellied man reminded him of the ace. Three, seven, ace—pursued him in his sleep, assuming all possible shapes: the three blossomed before him as a luxuriant grandiflora, the seven looked like a Gothic gate, the ace like an enormous spider. All his thoughts merged into one—to make use of the secret that had cost him so dearly. He began to think about retiring from the army and traveling. He wanted to force enchanted Fortuna to yield up her treasure in the open gambling houses of Paris. Chance spared him the trouble.
A company of rich gamblers had been formed in Moscow, presided over by the famous Chekalinsky, who had spent all his life at cards and had once made millions, taking winnings in promissory notes and paying losses in ready cash. Long experience had earned him the trust of his comrades, and his open house, fine chef, affable and cheerful disposition the respect of the public. He came to Petersburg. Young men flocked to him, forgetting balls for cards and preferring the temptations of faro to the allurements of philandering. Narumov brought Hermann to him.
They walked through a succession of magnificent rooms, filled with courteous attendants. Several generals and privy councilors were playing whist; young men sat sprawled on the damask sofas, ate ice cream and smoked pipes. In the drawing room, at a long table around which some twenty players crowded, the host sat keeping the bank. He was a man of about sixty, of very dignified appearance; his head was covered with a silvery gray; his full and fresh face was a picture of good nature; his eyes sparkled, enlivened by a perpetual smile. Narumov presented Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook his hand amicably, asked him not to stand on ceremony, and went back to dealing.
The round lasted a long time. There were more than thirty cards on the table. Chekalinsky paused after each stake to give the players time to make their arrangements, wrote down their losses, courteously listened to their requests, still more courteously unbent the superfluous corner bent down by a distracted hand. At last the round was over. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal another.
“Allow me to play a card,” said Hermann, reaching out his hand from behind a fat gentleman who was there punting. Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of his obedient consent. Narumov, laughing, congratulated Hermann for breaking his lengthy fast and wished him a lucky start.
“Here goes!” said Hermann, chalking a large sum above his card.
“How much, sir?” the host asked, narrowing his eyes. “Excuse me, sir, I can’t make it out.”
“Forty-seven thousand,” replied Hermann.
At these words all heads turned instantly, and all eyes were fixed on Hermann.
“He’s gone mad!” thought Narumov.
“Allow me to point out to you,” Chekalinsky said with his invariable smile, “that you are playing a strong game. No one here has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five on a simple.”
“What of it?” Hermann retorted. “Will you cover my card or not?”
Chekalinsky bowed with the same air of humble consent.
“I only wished to inform you,” he said, “that, honored by my comrades’ trust, I cannot bank otherwise than on ready cash. I’m sure, for my part, that your word is enough, but for the good order of the game and the accounting I beg you to place cash on the card.”
Hermann took a bank note from his pocket and handed it to Chekalinsky, who gave it a cursory glance and placed it on Hermann’s card.
He began to deal. On the right lay a nine, on the left a three.
“Mine wins!” said Hermann, showing his card.
Whispering arose among the players. Chekalinsky frowned, but the smile at once returned to his face.
“Would you like it now?” asked Chekalinsky.
“If you please.”
Chekalinsky drew several bank notes from his pocket and settled up at once. Hermann took his money and left the table. Narumov could not get over it. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and went home.
The next evening he appeared again at Chekalinsky’s. The host was dealing. Hermann went up to the table; the punters made room for him at once. Chekalinsky bowed affably to him.
Hermann waited for the new round, put down a card, placed on it his forty-seven thousand and the previous day’s winnings.
Chekalinsky began to deal. A jack fell to the right, a seven to the left. Hermann turned over his seven.
Everyone gasped. Chekalinsky was visibly disconcerted. He counted out ninety-four thousand and handed the money to Hermann. Hermann took it with great coolness and immediately withdrew.
On the following evening Hermann again appeared at the table. Everyone was expecting him. The generals and privy councilors abandoned their whist, so as to see such extraordinary play. The young officers leaped up from the sofas; all the attendants gathered in the drawing room. Everyone surrounded Hermann. The other players did not play their cards, waiting impatiently for the outcome. Hermann stood at the table, preparing to punt alone against the pale but still smiling Chekalinsky. They each unsealed a deck of cards. Chekalinsky shuffled. Hermann drew and put down his card, covering it with a heap of bank notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned all around.
Chekalinsky began to deal, his hands trembling. On the right lay a queen, on the left an ace.
“The ace wins!” said Hermann, and he turned over his card.
“Your queen loses,” Chekalinsky said affably.
Hermann shuddered: indeed, instead of an ace, the queen of spades stood before him. He did not believe his eyes, did not understand how he could have drawn the wrong card.
At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades winked and grinned. The extraordinary likeness struck him…
“The old woman!” he cried in horror.
Chekalinsky drew the bank notes to him. Hermann stood motionless. When he left the table, noisy talk sprang up.
“Beautifully punted!” said the players. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards again: the game went on.
CONCLUSION
Hermann went mad. He sits in the Obukhov Hospital, room 17, does not answer any questions, and mutters with extraordinary rapidity: “Three, seven, ace! Three, seven, queen!…”
Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man; he is in government service somewhere and has a decent fortune: he is the son of the old countess’s former steward. Lizaveta Ivanovna is bringing up a poor girl from her family.
Tomsky has been promoted to captain and is marrying Princess Polina.