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The Queen of Spades by Alexander Pushkin, First Published 1834

                          The Queen of Spades

              The Queen of Spades signifies secret ill-will.
                                         New Fortune-Teller

                      When bleak was the weather,
                      The friends came together
                      To play.
                      The stakes, they were doubled;
                      The sly ones, untroubled,
                      Were gay.
                      They all had their innings,
                      And chalked up their winnings,
                      And so
                      They kept busy together
                      Throughout the bleak weather,
                      Oho!


        There was a card-party at the rooms of Narumov 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, Surin?'' asked the host.
        ``Oh, I lost, as usual.  I must confess that I am unlucky: I never
raise the original stakes, I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me
out, and yet I always lose!''
        ``And you have never been tempted?  You have never stakes on several
cards in succession? ... Your firmness astonished me.''
        ``But what di 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 doubled the stake, 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 sacrigice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.''
        ``Hermann is a German; he is prudent--that is all!'' observed Tomsky.
``But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother,
the Countess Anna Fedotovana.''
        ``How?  What?'' cried the guests.
        ``I cannot understand,'' continued Tomsky, ``how it is that my
grandmother does not punt.''
        ``What is there remarkable about an old lay of eighty not gambling?''
said Narumov.
        ``Then you know nothing about her?''
        ``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 la Venus moscovite.  Richelieu courted her,
and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence
of her cruelty.  At that time ladies used to paly faro.  One one occasion at
the Court, she lost a very considerable sun 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
butler to my grandmother.  He dreaded her like fire; but, on hearding 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 monthes she had spent half a
million, that neither their Moscow nor Saratov estates were near Paris, and
finally refused point-blank to pay the debt.  My grandmother slapped his face
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
condescended to offer reasons and explanations.  She thought she could 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;
grandfather was in revolt.  He said `no,' and that was all.  My grandmother did
not know what to do.  She was on friendly terms with a very remarkable man.
You have heard of Coutn 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 charlaton; but Casanova, in his memories, says that he
was a spy.  But be that as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery
surrounding him, was a man of decent appearance and had an amiable manner in
company.  Even to this day my grandmother is in love with 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 she placed all her hopes
in his friendship and graciousness.
        ``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 we
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 gamblers listened with increased attention.  Tomsky lit his
pipe, pulled at it, and continued:
        ``That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles au jeu de la
Reine [to the game of the Queen].  The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my
grandmother excused herself in an offhanded manner for not having yet paid her
debt, by inventing some little story, and then begun to pay against him.  She
chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won at the
start and my grandmother recovered all that she had lost.''
        ``Mere chance!'' said one of the guests.
        ``A fairy tale!'' observed Hermann.
        ``Perhaps they were marked cards!'' said a third.
        ``I do not think so,'' replied Tomsky gravedly.
        ``What!'' said Narumov.  ``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 are desperate 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 Ilyich, and he assured me, on his honour, that is was true.  The late
Chaplitzky--the same who did in poverty after having squandered millions--once
lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand roubles--to Zorich, if I
remember right.  He was in despair.  My grandmother, who was always very hard
on extravagant young men, took pity, however, upon Chaplitzky.  She mentioned
him three cards, telling him to pay them one after the other, at the same time
exacting from him a solemn promise taht he would never play cards again as long
as he lived.  Chaplitzky then went to him victorious opponent, and they began a
fresh game.  On the first card he staked fifty thousand roubles and won at
once; he doubled the stake and won again, doubled it again, and won, not only
all he had lost, but something over and above that....
        ``But it is time to go to bed: it is quarter to six already.''
        And indeed it was already beginning to dawn; the young men emptied
their glasses and then took leave of one another.


                                    II

                  --Il parait que monsieur est
                  decidement pour les suivantes.
                  --Que voulez-vous, madame?  Elles
                  sont plus fraiches.

                  [``It appears, monsieur, that you
                  decidedly favour the lady's maids.''
                  ``Of course, madame; they're fresher.'']
                                             Society Talk


        The old Countess X. was seated in her dressing-room in front of her
looking-glass.  Three maids stood around her.  One held a small pot of rouge,
another a box of hairpins, and the third a tall cap with bright red ribbons.
The Countess had no longer the slightest pretensions to beauty--hers had faded
long ago--but she still preserved all the habits of her youth, dressed in
strict accordance with the fashion of the seventies, and made as long and as
careful a toilette as she would have done sixty yeards previously.  Near the
window, at an embroidery frame, sat a young lady, her ward.
        ``Good morning, Grand'maman,'' said a young offiver, entering the room.
``Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise.  Grand'maman, I have a favour to ask of you.''
        ``What is it, Paul?''
        ``I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, and to allow
me to bring him to the ball on Friday.''
        ``Bring him directly to the ball and introduce him to me there.  Were
you at N.'s yesterday?''
        ``Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing kept up and
until five o'clock.  How beautiful Mme Yelezkaya was!''
        ``But, my dear, what is there beautiful about her?  You should have
seen her grandmother, Princess Darya Petrovna!  By the way, she must have aged
very much, Princess Darya Petrovna.''
        ``How do you mean, aged?'' cried Tomsky thoughtlessly.  ``She died
seven years ago.''
        The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young man.  He
then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of the death of
any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lip.  But the Countess heard the news
with the greatest indifference.
        ``Died!'' said she.  ``And I did not know it.  We were appointed maids
of honour at the same time, and when we were being presented, the Empress....''
        And the Countess for the hundredth time related the anecdote to her
grandson.
        ``Come, Paul,'' said she, when she had finished her story, ``help me to
get up.  Lizanka, 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 is a whisper.
        ``Narumov.  Do you know him?''
        ``No.  Is he in the army or is he a civilian?''
        ``In the army.''
        ``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, not they kind they write nowadays.''
        ``What do you mean, Grand'maman?''
        ``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
them.''
        ``There are no such novels nowadays.  Would you like a Russian one?''
        ``Are there any Russian novels?  Send me one, my dear, please send me
one!''
        ``Good-bye, Grand'maman, I am in a hurry.... Good-bye, Lizaveta
Ivanovna.  What, then, made you think that Narumov was in the Engineers?''
        And Tomsky withdrew from the dressing-room.
        Lizaveta Ivanova was left alone; she laid aside her work and began to
 look out of the window.  A few moments after wards, from behind 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 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 put away her work.
        ``What is the matter with you, my dear, 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, and ran into the
ante-room.
        A servant entered and gave the Countess some books from Prince Pavel
Alexandrovich.
        ``Tell him that I am much obliged to him,'' said the Countess.
``Lizavata!  Lizavata!  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 aloud to me.''
        Her companion took the book and read a few lines.
        ``Louder,'' said the Countess.  ``What is the matter with you, my dear?
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 Pavel with my thanks.... But where is the carriage?''
        ``The carriage is ready,'' said Lizaveta, looking out into the street.
        ``How is it taht 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 maids came
running in at one door and the valet at another.
        ``How is it that you don't come 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 capture?  What sort of weather is
it?  It seems rather windy?''
        ``No, Your Ladyship, it is very calm,'' replied the valet.
        ``You always speak thoughtlessly.  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 out like that.''
        ``And that's my life!'' thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.
        And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate creature.  ``It
is bitter to eat the bread of another,'' says Dante, ``and hard to climb his
stair.''  But who can know what the bitterness of dependence is so well as the
poor companion of an old lady of quality?  The Countess X. had by no means a
bad heart, but she was capricious, like a woman who had been spoiled by the
world, as well as avaricious and sunk in cold egoism, like all old people who
are no longer capable of affection, 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 an ugly but indispensable ornament of the ballroom; the guest on
entering approached her and bowed profoundly, as if in accordance with a set
ceremony, but after that nobodt took any further notice of her.  She received
the whole town at her house, and observed the strictest etizuette, although she
could no longer recognize people.  Her numerous domestics, growing fat and old
in her antechamber and servants' hall, did just as they liked, and vied with
each other in robbing the moribund old woman.  Lizaveta Ivanovna was the martyr
of the household.  She poured tea, and was reprimanded for 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 role.  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 had a great deal of amour propre
[self-esteem], for a deliverer to come to her rescue; but the young men,
calculating in their giddiness, did not condescend to pay her any attention,
although Lizaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times prettier than the barefaced and
cold-hearted marriageable girls around whom they hovered.  Many a time did she
quitely slink away from the dull and elegant 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 burned feebly
in a copper candlestick.
        One morning--this was about two days after the card-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 emboridery
frame, when, happening to look out into the street, she caught sight of a young
officer of the Engineers, 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 the window, she
perceived the officer again.  This seemed to her very strange.  After dinner
she went to the windown 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 to the entrance,
with his face half-concealed by his beaver collar, his black eyes flashing
beneath his hat.  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 curosity and agitated by feeling with was quite new to her.
        From that time on not a day passed without the young officer making his
appearance under the window at the customary hour.  A spontaneous relationship
was established between them.  Sitting in her place at work, she would 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 for it: she saw with the
sharp eye of youth how a sudden flush covered his pale cheeks each time that
their glances met.  By the end of the week she smiled 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 Narumov was not an Engineer, but in the Horse Guards, she regretted that
by her indiscreet question, she had betrayed her secret to the volatile Tomsky.

        Hermann was the some of a Russified German from whome he had inherited
a small fortune.  Being firmly convinced of the necessity of ensuring his
independence, Hermann did not touch even the interest on his capital, 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 excessive parsimony.  He had strong passions and an
ardent imagination, but his firmness of disposition preserved him from the
ordinary errors of youth.  Thus, though a gambler at heart, he never touched a
card, for he considered his position did not allow him--as he said--``to rick
the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous,'' yet he would sit for
nights together at the card-table and follow with feverish excitement the
various 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
only,'' he thought to himself the following evening, as he wandered through St.
Petersburg, ``if only the old Countess would 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--perhaps 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! ... And the story
itself: is it credible? ... Not Prudence, moderation and work: those are my
three winning cards; that is what will increase my capital threefold,
sevenfold, and procure for me case 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 old-fashioned
architecture.  The street was blocked with carriages; one after the other they
rolled up in front of the illuminated entrance.  Every minute there emerged
from the coaches the shapely foot of a young beauty, a spurred boot, a strupped
stocking above a diplomatic shoe.  Fur coats and cloaks whisked past the
majestic porter.
        Hermann stopped.  ``Whose house is this?'' he asked the watchman at the
corner.
        ``The Countess X.'s,'' replied the watchman.
        Hermann trembled.  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 marvellous gift.  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 bank-notes and
heaps of gold coins.  He played card after card, firmly turning down the
corners, and won uninterruptedly, raking in the gold and filling his pockets
with the notes.  Waking up late the next morning, he sighed over the loss of
his imaginary wealth, then went out again to wander about the streets, and
found himself once more in front of the Countess's house.  Some unknown power
seemed to draw him thither.  He stopped and began to stare at the windows.  In
one of these he saw the head of a black-haired woman, which was bent probably
over some book or handwork.  The head was raised.  Hermann saw a fresh-cheeked
face and a pair of black eye.  That moment decided his fate.


                                III

                Vous m'ecivez, mon ange, des lettres de
                quatre pages plus vite que je ne puis les lire.

    [You write me four-page letters, my angle, faster than I can read them]
                                                          A Correspondence

        Lizaveta Ivanovna had scarcely taken off her hat and cloak, when the
Countess sent for her and again ordered the carriage.  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 into the carriage, Lizaveta saw
her Engineer 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
leaving a letter in her hand.  She concealed it in her glove, and during the
whole 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 sign-board?''  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 sense, 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 hom 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 with the letter.
        For all that, it troubled her exceedingly.  For the first time in her
life she was entering into a secret and intimate relations with a young man.
His boldness horrified her.  She reproached herself from 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 cheek upon the
young officer's desire to pursue her further?  Should she send his letter back
to him, or should he answer him in a cold and resolute 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 indulgent or too severe.  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 action, but our
acquantiance should not have begun in such a manner.  I return you your letter,
and I hope that I shall never have any cause to complain of undeserved
disrespect.''
        The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lizaveta rose
from her embroidery, went into the drawing-room, opened the wicket and threw
the letter into the street, trusting to the young officer's alertness.
        Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired to a
confectioner's shop.  Breaking the seal of the envelop, he found inside it his
own letter and Lizaveta's reply.  He had expected this, and he returned home,
very much taken up with his intrigue.
        Three days afterwards, a bright-eyes 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, withour concealing a sly
smile.  ``Have the goodness to read it.''
        Lizaveta glanced at the letter.  Hermann requested an interview.
        ``It cannot be,'' said Lizaveta Ivanovna, alarmed both at the haste
with which he had made his request, and the manner in which it had been
transmitted.  ``This letter is certainly not for me.''
        And she tore it into fragments.
        ``It the letter was not for you, why have you torn it up?'' 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 in 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 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 then 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 X. Embassy.  The
Countess will be there.  We shall remain until two o'clock.  This is your
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 porter, but
he, too, usually retired to his lodge.  Come at half past eleven.  Walk
straight upstairs.  If you meet anybody in the ante-room, ask if the Countess
is at home.  If you are told she is not, there will be nothing left for you to
do but to go away and return another time.  But it is most probable that you
will meet nobody.  The maidservants all sit together in one room.  On leaving
the ante-room, turn to the left, and walk straight on until you reach the
Countess' bedroom.  In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find two small
doors: the one on the right lead to a study, which the Countess never enters;
the one on the left leads to a corridor, at the end of which is a narrow
winding staircase; this leads to my room.''
        Hermann quivered like a tiger as he waited for the appointed time.  At
ten o'clock in the evening he was already in front of the Countess' house.  The
weather was terrible; the wind was howling; 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, the driver on the
look out for a belated fare.  Hermann stood there wearing nothing but his
kacket, yet he felt neither the wind nor the snow.
        At last the Countess' carriage drew up.  Hermann saw two footmen carry
out in their arms the bent form of the old lady, wrapped in sables, and
immediately behind her, clad in a light mantle, and with a wreath of fresh
flowers on her head followed Lizaveta.  The door was closed.  The carriage
rolled away heavily through the yeilding 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 ran up the
stairs, opened the door of the ante-room and saw a footman sitting asleep in an
antique soiled armchair, under a lamp.  With a light firm step Hermann walked
past him.  The reception room and the drawing-romm were in semi-darkness.
There were lit feebly by a lamp in the ante-room.

        Hermann entered the bedroom.  Before an icon case, filled with ancient
icons, a golden sanctuary lamp was burning.  Armchairs, upholstered in faded
brocade, and sofas, the gilding of which was worn off and which were piled with
down cushions, stood in melancholy symmetry around the room, the walls of which
were hung with China silk.  On the wall hung two huge portraits painted in
Paris by Madame Leburn.  One of them represented a plump, pink-cheeked man of
about forty in a light-green uniform and with a star on his breast; the
other--a beautiful young woman, with a aquiline nose, curls to her temples, and
a rose in her powdered hair.  In all the corners stood porcelain shepherds and
shepherdesses, clocks from the workshop of the celebrated Leroy, boxes,
roulettes, fans, and the various gewgaws for ladies that were invented at the
end of the last century, together with Montgolfier's balloon and Mesmer's
magnetism.  Hermann stepped behind the screen.  Behind it stood a little iron
bed; on the right was the door which led to the study; on the left--the other
which led to the corridor.  He opened the later, and saw the little winding
staircase which led to the room of the poor ward.... But he retraced his steps
and entered the dark study.
        The time passed slowly.  All was still.  The clock in the drawing-room
struck twelve; in all the rooms, one clock after another marked the hour, and
everything was quite 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.  The clock struck one, then two; and he
heard the distant rumbling of carriage wheels.  In spite of himself, excitement
seized him.  The carriage drew near and stopped.  He heard the sound of the
carriage step being let down.  All was bustle within the house.  The servants
were running hither and thither, voices were heard, and the house was lit up.
Three antiquated chambermaids entered the bedroom, and they were shortly
afterwards followed by the Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into an
arm-chair.  Hermann peeped through a chink.  Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by
him, and he heard her steps as she hurried up her staircase.  For a moment his
heart was assailed by something like remorse, but the emotion was only
transitory.  He stood petrified.
        The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass.  Her cap,
decorated with roses, was unpinned, and then her powdered wig was removed from
off her white and closely cropped head.  Hairpinds fell in showers around her.
Her yellow satin dress, embroidered with silver, fell down at her swollen feet.
        Herman witnessed the repulsive mysteries of her toilette; at last the
Countess was in her night-cap and night-gown, and in this costume, more
suitable to her age, she appeared less hideous and terrifying.
        Like old people in general, the Countess suffered from sleeplessness.
Having undressed, she seated herself at the window in an arm-chair and
dismissed her maids.  The candles were taken away, and once more the room was
lit only by the sanctuary lamp.  The Countess sat there looking quite yellow,
moving her flaccid lips and swaying from side to side.  Her dull eyes expressed
complete vacancy of mind, and, looking at her, one would have thought that the
rocking of her body was not voluntary, but was produced by the action of some
concealed galvanic mechanism.
        Suddenly the deathlike face changed incredibly.  The lips ceased to
more, the eyes became animated: before the Countess stood a stranger.
        ``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 silenve, as if she had not heard what he
had said.  Hermann thought that she was deaf, and, bending down toward her ear,
he repeated what he had said.  The old woman remained silent as before.
        ``You can ensure the happiness of my life,'' continued Hermann, ``and
it will cost you nothing.  I know that you can name three cards in
sucession--''
        Hermann stopped.  The Countess appeared now to understand what was
asked of her; she seemed to be seeking words with which to reply.
        ``It was a joke,'' she replied at last.  ``I swear it was only a
joke.''
        ``This is no joking matter,'' replied Harmann angrily.  ``Remember
Chaplitzky, whom you helped to win back what he had lost.''
        The Countess became visibly uneasy.  Her features expressed strong
emotion, but she soon lapsed into her former insensibility.
        ``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 you grandsons?  They was rick enough without it;
they do not know the work 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 wasted on 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 your breast has ever throbbed with any human feeling, I entreat you
by the feeling of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all that is most sacred in
life, not to reject my plea.  Reveal to me your secret.  Of what use is it to
you? ... Maybe it is connected with some terrible sin, the loss of eternal
bliss, some bargain with the devil.... Consider--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, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, will bless your
memory and reverence it as something sacred....''
        The old woman answered not a word.
        Hermann rose to his feet.
        ``You old witch!'' he exclaimed, clenching 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 backward and remained motionless.
        ``Come, an end to this childish nensense!'' 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!


                                IV

                           7 mai, 18--
                Homme sans moeurs et sans religion!

                [A man without morals or religion!]
                                   A Correspondence

        Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress,
lost in deep thought.  On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the sleepy
maid, who reluctantly came forward to assist her, saying that she would undress
herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up to her own room, hoping to find
Hermann there, but yet desiring not to find him.  At the first glance she
convinced herself that he was not there, and she thanked her fate for the
obstacle which had prevented their meeting.  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 had first
seen the young man from the window--and she already was in correspondence with
him, and he had succeeded in inducing her to grant him a nocturnal tryst!  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 anything of him until that evening.  But, strange to say, that very
evening at the ball, Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess Pauline N.,
whom 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.  All the time he kept teasing
her about her partiality for officers in the Engineers; he assured her that he
knew far more than she could have supposed, 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 learned all this?'' she asked, smiling.
        ``From a friend of a person very well known to you,'' replied Tomsky,
``from a very remarkable man.''
        ``And who is this remarkable man?''
        ``His name is Hermann.''
        Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet turned to ice.
        ``This Hermann,'' continued Tomsky, ``is a truly romantic character.
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 are!''
        ``I have a headache.... But what did this Hermann--or whatever his name
is--tell you?''
        ``Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: she says taht in
his place he would act very differently.... I even think that Hermann himself
has designed upon you; at least, he listens not indifferently to his friend's
enamoured exclamations.''
        ``But where has he seen me?''
        ``In church, perhaps; or promenading--God alone knows where.  It may
have been in your room, while you were asleep, for his is capable of it.''
        Three ladies approaching him with the question: ``Oubli ou regret
[Forgetfulness or 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 by making an extra turn in the
dance and managing to delay resuming her seat.  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 works were nothing more than the small talk of the mazurka,
but they sank deep into the sould of the young dreamer.  The portrait, sketched
by Tomsky, agreed with the picture she had formed in her own mind, and that
image, rendered commonplace by current novels, terrified and fascinated her
imagination.  She was not sitting with her bare arms crossed and her head,
still adorned with flowers, was bowed over her half-covered breast.  Suddenly
the door opened and Hermann entered.  She shuddered.
        ``Where have you been?'' she asked in a frightened whisper.
        ``In the old Countess' bedroom,'' replied Hermann.  ``I have just left
her.  The Countess is dead.''
        ``My God!  What are you saying?''
        ``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 demands, this bold obstinate pursuit--all this was not love!
Money--that ware what his soul yearned for!  She could not satisfy his desire
and make him happy!  The poor girl had been nothing but the blind accomplice of
a robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress! ... She wept bitter tears
of belated, agonized repentance.  Hermann gazed at her in silence: his heart,
too, was tormented, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the wonderful
charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could prduce any impression upon
his hardened soul.  He felt no pricking of conscience at the thought of the
dead old woman.  One thing only horrified him: the irreparable loss of the
secret which he had expected would bring him wealth.
        ``You are a monster!'' said Lizaveta at last:
        ``I did not wish her death,'' replied Hermann: ``my pistol is not
loaded.''
        Both grew 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 toward
Hermann: he was sitting on the window-sill, with his arms folded and frowning
fiercely.  In this attitude he bore a striking resemblance to the portrait of
Napolean.  This resemblance struck even Lizaveta Ivanovna.
        ``How shall I get your 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' 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
give him the necessary instructions.  Hermann pressed her cold, unresponsive
hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room
        He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the Countess'
bedroom.  The dead old woman sat as if petrified; her face expressed profound
tranquillity.  Hermann stopped befoer her, and gazed long and earnestly at her,
as if he wished to convince himself of the terrible reality; at last he entered
the study, felt behind the tapestry for the door, and then began to descend the
dark staircase, agitated by strange emotions.  ``At this very hour,'' thought
he, ``some sixty years ago, a young gallant, who had long been mouldering in
his grave, may have stolen down this very staircase, perhaps coming from the
very same bedroom, wearing an embroidered caftan, with his hair dressed a
l'oiseau royal and pressing to his heart his three-cornered het, and the heart
of his aged mistress has only today ceased to beat....''
        At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened
with the same key, and found himself in a corridor which led him into the
street.


                                V
      That night the deceased Baroness von W. appeared to me.  She was clad
      all in white and said to me: ``How are you, Mr. Councilor?''
                                                                 Swedenborg

        Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning,
Hermann repaired to the Convet of -----, where the burial service for the
deceased Countess was to be held.  Although feeling no remorse, he could not
altogether stifle the voice of conscience, which kept repeating to him: ``You
are the murderer of the old woman!''  While he had little true faith, he was
very superstitious; and believing that the dead Countess  might exercise an
evil influence on his life, he resolved to be present at her funeral in order
to ask her pardon.
        The church was full.  It was with difficulty that Hermann made his way
through the crowd.  The coffin stood on a sumptuous catafalque under a velvet
baldachin.  The deceased lay within it, her hands crossed upon her breast, and
wearing a lace cap and a white satin gown.  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 not among the living.  A famous preacher delivered the
funeral oration.  In simple and touching words he described the peaceful
passing away of the saintly woman whose long life had been a serene, moving
preparation for a Christian end.  ``The angle of death found her,'' said the
preacher, ``engaged in pious meditation and waiting for the midnight
bridegroom.''
        The service concluded in an atmosphere of melancholy decorum.  The
relatives went fowards first to bid farewell to the deceased.  Then followed
the numerous acquaintances, who had come to render the last homage to her who
for so many years had participated in their frivolous amusements.  After these
followed the members of the Countess' household.  The last of these was the old
housekeeper who was of the same age as the deceased.  Two young women led her
forward, supporting her by the arms.  She had not strength enough to bow down
to the ground--she was the only one to shed a few tears and kiss the cold hand
of her mistress.
        Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin.  He bowed down to the
ground and for several minutes lay on the cold floor, which was strewn with fir
boughs; at last he arose, as pale as the deceased Countess herself, 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.  He
was lifted up.  At the same moment Lizaveta Ivanovna was carried into the
vestibule of the church in a faint.  This episode disturbed for some minutes
the solemnity of the gloomy ceremony.  Among the congregation arose a muffled
murmir, and the lean 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 coldlu replied: ``Oh!''
        During the whole of that day, Hermann was exceedingly perturbed.
Dining in an out-of-the-way restaurant, he drank a great deal of wine, contrary
to his usual custom, in the hope of allaying 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 the ante-room open.  Hermann
thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual, returning home from some
nocturnal expendition, but presently he heard footsteps that were unknown to
him: somebody was shuffing softly across 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 will,'' 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
ward, Lizaveta Ivanovna.
        With these words she turned round very quietly, walked with a shuffing
gait toward the door and disappeared.  Hermann heard the street door band, and
he saw someone look in at him through the window again.
        For a long time Hermann could not recover himself.  Then he went into
the next room.  His orderly was asleep upon the floor, and he had much
difficulty in waking him.  The orderly was drunk as usual, and nothing could be
got out of him.  The street door was locked.  Hermann returned to his room, lit
his candle, and set down an account of his vision.


                                VI
                ``Attendez!''
                ``How dare yo say attendez to me?''
                ``Your Excellency, I said: `Attendez, Sir.' ''

        Two fixed ideas can not 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 though of the dead Countess.
``Three, seven, ace'' were perpetually running through his head and continually
on 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 three bloomed before him in his sleep, and assumed all
possible shapes.  The three bloomed before him in the form of a magnificent
flower, the seven was represented by a Gothic portal, and the ace became
transfered into a gigantic spider.  One thought alone occupied his whole
mind--to make 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 forced fortune to yeild a treasure to him in the public gambling houses
there.  Chance spared him all this trouble.
        There was in Moscow a society of wealthy gamblers, presided over by the
celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed all his life at the card table and had
ammased 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
cheerful manner 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 temptations of faro to the seductions of
flirting.  Narumov conducted Hermann to Chekalinsky's residence.
        They passed through a suit of magnificent rooms, filled with courteous
attendants.  Several generals and privy counsellors were playing 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
crowded 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 eye twinkled with a perpetual smile.  Narumov
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 lasted a long time.  On the table lay more than thirty cards.
Chekalinsky pasued after each throw, in order to give the players time to
arrange their cards and note down their losses, listen politely to their
requests, and more politely still, straightened out the corners of cards that
some absent-minded player's hand had turned down.  At last the game was
finished.  Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.
        ``Allow me to play a card,'' said Hermann, stretching out his hands
from behind a stout gentlemay who was punting.
        Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acquiescence.
Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on ends his long abstention from
cards, and wished him a lucky beginning.
        ``Here goes!'' said Hermann, writing the figure with chalk on the back
of his card.
        ``How much, sir?'' asked the banker, screwing up his eyes.  ``Excuse
me, I cannot see quite clearly.''
        ``Forty-seven thousand,'' replied Hermann.
        At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round, and all
eyes were fixed upon Hermann.
        ``He had taken leave of his senses!'' thought Narumov.
        ``Allow me to observe,'' said Chekalinsky, with his eternal smile,
``that that is a very high stake; nobody here had ever staked more than two
hundred and seventy-five roubles at a time.''
        ``Well,'' retorted Hermann, ``do you accept my card or not?''
        Chekalinsky bowed with the same look of humble acquiescence.
        ``I only wish to inform you,'' said he, ``that enjoying the full
confidence of my partners, I can only play for ready money.  For my own part, I
am, of course, quite convinced that your word is sufficient, but for the sake
of order, and because of the accounts, I must ask you to put the money on your
card.''
        Hermann drew from his pocket a banknotw 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 win!'' 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 up at
once.  Hermann took his money and left the table.  Narumov could not recover
from his astonishment.  Hermann drank a glass of lemomade and went home.
        The next evening he again appeared at 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 game, took a card and placed upon it his
forty-seven thousand roubles, together with his winning of the previous
evening.
        Chekalinsky began to deal.  A kanve turned up on the right, a seven on
the left.
        Hermann showed his seven.
        There was a general exclamation.  Chekalinsky was obviously disturbed,
 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 counselors left their whist in order
 watch such extraordinary play.  The young officers jumped up from their sofas,
 and even the servants crowded 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 new pack of cards.  Chekalinsky shuffled.  Hermann
 took a card and covered it with a pile of banknotes.  It was like a duel.
 Deep silence reigned.
        Chekalinsky began to deal; his hands trembled.  On the right a queen
turned up, and on the left an ace:
        ``Ace wins!'' cried Hermann, showing his card.
        ``Your queen has lost,'' said Chekalinsky sweetly.
        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 screwed up her
eyes and sneered.  He was struck by the remarkable resemblance....
        ``The old woman!'' he exclaimedm, in terror.
        Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings.  For some time Hermann remained
perfectly motionless.  When at last he left the table, the room buzzed with
loud talk.
        ``Splendidly punted!'' said the players.  Chekalinsky shuffled the
cards afresh, and the game went on as usual.


                        CONCLUSION

        Hermann went out of his mind.  He is now confined to room Number 17 of
the Obukhov 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 a civil servant, and has a
considerable fortune.  Lizaveta is bringing up a poor relative.
        Tomsky has been promoted to be rank of a captain, and is marrying
Princess Pauline.