‘To dress.’
‘There is plenty of time, my dear. Sit down here. Open the first volume and read to me.’
The girl 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, or what? Wait a minute…. Give me that footstool. A little closer. That will do!’
Lizaveta Ivanovna read two more pages. The countess yawned.
‘Throw that book away,’ she said. ‘What nonsense it is! Send it back to Prince Paul with my thanks…. What about the carriage?’
‘The carriage is ready,’ said Lizaveta Ivanovna, glancing out into the street.
‘How is it you are not dressed?’ the countess said. ‘You always keep people waiting. It really is intolerable!’
Liza ran to her room. Hardly two minutes passed before the countess started ringing with all her might. Three maids rushed in at one door and a footman at the other.
‘Why is it you don’t come when you are called?’ the countess said to them. ‘Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna I am waiting.’
Lizaveta Ivanovna returned, wearing a hat and a pelisse.
‘At last, my dear!’ said the countess. ‘Why the finery? What is it for?… For whose benefit?… And what is the weather like? Windy, isn’t it?’
‘No, your ladyship,’ the footman answered, ‘there is no wind at all.’
‘You say anything that comes into your head! Open the window. Just as I thought: there is a wind, and a very cold one too! Dismiss the carriage. Lise, my child, we won’t go out – you need not have dressed up after all.’
‘And this is my life!’ Lizaveta Ivanovna thought to herself.
Indeed, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a most unfortunate creature. ‘Another’s bread is bitter to the taste,’ says Dante, ‘and his staircase hard to climb’1 and who should know the bitterness of dependence better than a poor orphan brought up by an old lady of quality? The countess was certainly not bad-hearted but she had all the caprices of a woman spoiled by society, she was stingy and coldly selfish, like all old people who have done with love and are out of touch with life around them. She took part in all the vanities of the fashionable world, dragged herself to balls, where she sat in a corner, rouged and apired after some bygone mode, like a misshapen but indispensable ornament of the ball-room. On their arrival the guests all went up to her and bowed low, as though in accordance with an old-established rite, and after that no one took any more notice of her. She received the whole town at her house, observing the strictest etiquette and not recognizing the faces of any of her guests. Her numerous servants, grown fat and grey in her entrance hall and the maids’ quarters, did what they liked and vied with each other in robbing the decrepit old woman. Lizaveta Ivanovna was the household martyr. She poured out tea and was reprimanded for using too much sugar; she read novels aloud to the countess and was blamed for all the author’s mistakes; she accompanied the countess on her drives and was answerable for the weather and the state of the roads. She was supposed to receive a salary, which was never paid in full and yet she was expected to be as well dressed as everyone else – that is, as very few indeed. In society she played the most pitiable role. Everybody knew her and nobody gave her any thought. At balls she danced only when someone was short of a partner, and the ladies would take her by the arm each time they wanted to go to the cloak-room to rearrange some detail of their toilette. She was sensitive and felt her position keenly, and looked about impatiently for a deliverer to come; but the young men, calculating in their empty-headed frivolity, honoured her with scant attention though Lizaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times more charming than the cold, brazenfaced heiresses they ran after. Many a time she crept away from the tedious, glittering drawing-room to go and weep in her humble little attic with its wall-paper screen, chest of drawers, small looking-glass and painted wooden bedstead, and where a tallow-candle burned dimly in a brass candlestick.
One morning, two days after the card party described at the beginning of this story and a week before the scene we have just witnessed – one morning Lizaveta Ivanovna, sitting at her embroidery-frame by the window, happened to glance out into the street and see a young Engineers officer standing stock-still gazing at her window. She lowered her head and went on with her work. Five minutes afterwards she looked out again – the young officer was still on the same spot. Not being in the habit of coquetting with passing officers, she looked out no more and went on sewing for a couple of hours without raising her head. Luncheon was announced. She got up to put away her embroidery-frame and, glancing casually into the street, saw the officer again. This seemed to her somewhat strange. After luncheon she went to the window with a certain feeling of uneasiness, but the officer was no longer there, and she forgot about him….
A day or so later, just as she was stepping into the carriage with the countess, she saw him again. He was standing right by the front door, his face hidden by his beaver collar; his dark eyes sparkled beneath his fur cap. Lizaveta Ivanovna felt alarmed, though she did not know why, and seated herself in the carriage, inexplicably agitated.
On returning home she ran to the window – the officer was standing in his accustomed place, his eyes fixed on her. She drew back, consumed with curiosity and excited by a feeling quite new to her.
Since then not a day had passed without the young man appearing at a certain hour beneath the windows of their house, and between him and her a sort of mute acquaintance was established. Sitting at her work she would sense his approach, and lifting her head she looked at him longer and longer every day. The young man seemed to be grateful to her for looking out: with the keen eyes of youth she saw the quick flush of his pale cheeks every time their glances met. By the end of a week she had smiled at him….
When Tomsky asked the countess’s permission to introduce a friend of his the poor girl’s heart beat violently. But hearing that Narumov was in the Horse Guards, not the Engineers, she regretted the indiscreet question by which she had betrayed her secret to the irresponsible Tomsky.
*
Hermann was the son of a German who had settled in Russia and who left him some small capital sum. Being firmly convinced that it was essential for him to make certain of his independence, Hermann did not touch even the interest on his income but lived on his pay, denying himself the slightest extravagance. But since he was reserved and ambitious his companions rarely had any opportunity for making fun of his extreme parsimony. He had strong passions and an ardent imagination, but strength of character preserved him from the customary mistakes of youth. Thus, for instance, though a gambler at heart he never touched cards, having decided that his means did not allow him (as he put it) ‘to risk the necessary in the hope of acquiring the superfluous’. And yet he spent night after night at the card tables, watching with feverish anxiety the vicissitudes of the game.
The story of the three cards had made a powerful impression upon his imagination and it haunted his mind all night. ‘Supposing,’ he thought to himself the following evening as he wandered about Petersburg, ‘supposing the old countess were to reveal her secret to me? Or tell me the three winning cards! Why shouldn’t I try my luck?… Get introduced to her, win her favour – become her lover, perhaps. But all that would take time, and she is eighty-seven. She might be dead next week, or the day after tomorrow even!… And the story itself? Is it likely? No, economy, moderation and hard work are my three winning cards. With them I can treble my capital – increase it sevenfold and obtain for myself leisure and independence!’ Musing thus, he found himself in one of the main streets of Petersburg, in front of a house of old-fashioned architecture. The street was lined with carriages which followed one another up to the lighted porch. Out of the carriages stepped now the shapely little foot of a young beauty, now a military boot with clinking spur, or a diplomat’s striped stockings and buckled shoes. Fur coats and cloaks passed in rapid procession before the majestic-looking concierge. Hermann stopped.
‘Who
se house is that?’ he asked a watchman in his box at the corner.
‘The Countess X’s,’ the man told him. It was Tomsky’s grandmother.
Hermann started. The strange story of the three cards came into his mind again. He began walking up and down past the house, thinking of its owner and her wonderful secret. It was late when he returned to his humble lodgings; he could not get to sleep for a long time, and when sleep did come he dreamed of cards, a green baize table, stacks of bank-notes and piles of gold. He played card after card, resolutely turning down the corners, winning all the time. He raked in the gold and stuffed his pockets with bank-notes. Waking late in the morning, he sighed over the loss of his fantastic wealth, and then, sallying forth to wander about the town again, once more found himself outside the countess’s house. It was as though some supernatural force drew him there. He stopped and looked up at the windows. In one of them he saw a dark head bent over a book or some needlework. The head was raised. Hermann caught sight of a rosy face and a pair of black eyes. That moment decided his fate.
3
Vous m’écrivez, mon ange, des lettres de quatre pages plus vite que jene puis les lire.
FROM A CORRESPONDENCE1
LIZAVETA IVANOVNA had scarcely taken off her hat and mantle before the countess sent for her and again ordered the carriage. They went out to take their seats. Just as the two footmen were lifting the old lady and helping her through the carriage door Lizaveta Ivanovna saw her Engineers officer standing by the wheel. He seized her hand; before she had recovered from her alarm the young man had disappeared, leaving a letter between her fingers. She hid it in her glove, and for the rest of the drive neither saw nor heard anything. It was the countess’s habit when they were out in the carriage to ask a constant stream of questions: ‘Who was that we met?’ – ‘What bridge is this?’ – ‘What does that signboard say?’ This time Lizaveta Ivanovna returned such random and irrelevant answers that the countess grew angry with her.
‘What is me matter with you, my dear? Have you been stunned? Don’t you hear me or understand what I say?… I speak distinctly enough, thank heaven, and am not in my dotage yet!’
Lizaveta Ivanovna paid no attention to her. When they returned home she ran up to her room and drew the letter out of her glove: it was unsealed. She read it. The letter contained a declaration of love: it was tender, respectful and had been copied word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta Ivanovna did not know any German and she was delighted with it.
For all that, the letter troubled her greatly. For the first time in her life she was embarking upon secret and intimate relations with a young man. His boldness appalled her. She reproached herself for her imprudent behaviour, and did not know what to do: ought she to give up sitting at the window and by a show of indifference damp the young man’s inclination to pursue her further? Should she return his letter to him? Or answer it coldly and firmly? There was nobody to whom she could turn for advice: she had neither female friend nor preceptor. Lizaveta Ivanovna decided to reply to the letter.
She sat down at her little writing-table, took pen and paper – and began to ponder. Several times she made a start and then tore the paper across: what she had written seemed to her either too indulgent or too harsh. At last she succeeded in composing a few lines with which she felt satisfied. ‘I am sure’, she wrote, ‘that your intentions are honourable and that you had no wish to hurt me by any thoughtless conduct; but our acquaintance ought not to have begun in this manner. I return you your letter, and hope that in future I shall have no cause to complain of being shown a lack of respect which is undeserved.’
Next day, as soon as she saw Hermann approaching, Lizaveta Ivanovna got up from her embroidery-frame, went into the drawing-room, opened the little ventilating window and threw the letter into the street, trusting to the young officer’s alertness. Hermann ran forward, picked the letter up and went into a confectioner’s shop. Breaking the seal, he found his own letter and Lizaveta Ivanovna’s reply. It was just what he had expected and he returned home engrossed in his plot.
Three days after this a sharp-eyed young person brought Lizaveta Ivanovna a note from a milliner’s establishment. Lizaveta Ivanovna opened it uneasily, fearing it was a demand for money, and suddenly recognized Hermann’s handwriting.
‘You have made a mistake, my dear,’ she said. ‘This note is not for me.’
‘Oh yes it is for you!’ retorted the girl boldly, not troubling to conceal a knowing smile. ‘Please read it.’
Lizaveta Ivanovna glanced at the letter. In it Hermann wanted her to meet him.
‘Impossible!’ she cried, alarmed at the request, at its coming so soon, and at the means employed to transmit it. ‘I am sure this was not addressed to me.’ And she tore the letter into fragments.
‘If the letter was not for you, why did you tear it up?’ said the girl. ‘I would have returned it to the sender.’
‘Be good enough, my dear,’ said Lizaveta Ivanovna, flushing crimson at her remark, ‘not to bring me any more letters. And tell the person who sent you that he ought to be ashamed…’
But Hermann did not give in. Every day Lizaveta Ivanovna received a letter from him by one means or another. They were no longer translated from the German. Hermann wrote them inspired by passion and in a style which was his own: they reflected both his inexorable desire and the disorder of an unbridled imagination. Lizaveta Ivanovna no longer thought of returning them: she drank them in eagerly and took to answering – and the notes she sent grew longer and more affectionate every hour. At last she threw out of the window to him the following letter:
There is a ball tonight at the Embassy. The countess will be there. We shall stay until about two o’clock. Here is an opportunity for you to see me alone. As soon as the countess is away the servants are sure to go to their quarters, leaving the concierge in the hall but he usually retires to his lodge. Come at half past eleven. Walk straight up the stairs. If you meet anyone in the ante-room, ask if the countess is at home. They will say ‘No’, but there will be no help for it – you will have to go away. But probably you will not meet anyone. The maids all sit together in the one room. Turn to the left out of the ante-room and keep straight on until you reach the countess’s bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find two small doors: the one on the right leads into the study where the countess never goes; and the other on the left opens into a passage with a narrow winding staircase up to my room.
Hermann waited for the appointed hour like a tiger trembling for its prey. By ten o’clock in the evening he was already standing outside the countess’s house. It was a frightful night: the wind howled, wet snow fell in big flakes; the street lamps burned dimly; the streets were deserted. From time to time a sledge drawn by a sorry-looking hack passed by, the driver on the watch for a belated fare. Hermann stood there without his great-coat, feeling neither the wind nor the snow. At last the countess’s carriage was brought round. Hermann saw the old woman wrapped in sables being lifted into the vehicle by two footmen; then Liza in a light cloak, with natural flowers in her hair, flitted by. The carriage doors banged. The vehicle rolled heavily over the wet snow. The concierge closed the street-door. The lights in the windows went out. Hermann started to walk to and fro outside the deserted house; he went up to a street-lamp and glanced at his watch: it was twenty minutes past eleven. He stood still by the lamp-post, his eyes fixed on the hand of the watch. Precisely at half past eleven Hermann walked up the steps of the house and entered the brightly lit vestibule. The concierge was not there. Hermann ran up the stairs, opened the door of the ante-room and saw a footman asleep in a soiled, old-fashioned arm-chair by the side of a lamp. With a light, firm tread Hermann passed quickly by him. The ball-room and drawing-room were in darkness but the lamp in the ante-room shed a dim light into them. Hermann entered the bedroom. Ancient icons filled the icon-stand before which burned a golden lamp. Arm-chairs upholstered in faded damask and sofas with down cushions, the tassels of wh
ich had lost their gilt, were ranged with depressing symmetry round the walls hung with Chinese wall-paper. On one of the walls were two portraits painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun: the first of a stout, red-faced man of some forty years of age, in a light-green uniform with a star on his breast; the other – a beautiful young woman with an aquiline nose and a rose in the powdered hair drawn back over her temples. Every corner was crowded with porcelain shepherdesses, clocks made by the celebrated Leroy, little boxes, roulettes, fans and all the thousand and one playthings invented for ladies of fashion at the end of the last century together with Montgolfier’s balloon and Mesmer’s magnetism. Hermann stepped behind the screen. A small iron bedstead stood there; to the right was the door into the study – to the left, the other door into the passage. Hermann opened it and saw the narrow winding staircase leading to poor little Liza’s room. But he turned about and went into the dark study.
The time passed slowly. Everything was quiet. The drawing-room clock struck twelve; the clocks in the other rooms chimed twelve, one after the other, and all was still again. Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove. He was quite calm: his heart beat evenly, like that of a man resolved upon a dangerous but inevitable undertaking. The clocks struck one, and then two, and he heard the distant rumble of a carriage. In spite of himself he was overcome with agitation. The carriage drove up to the house and stopped. He heard the clatter of the carriage-steps being lowered. In the house all was commotion. Servants ran to and fro, there was a confusion of voices, and lights appeared everywhere. Three ancient lady’s maids bustled into the bedroom, followed by the countess who, half dead with fatigue, sank into a Voltaire arm-chair. Hermann watched through a crack in the door. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him and he heard her footsteps hurrying up the stairs to her room. For a moment something akin to remorse assailed him but he quickly hardened his heart again.