‘Be so kind, my dear,’ said Lizaveta Ivanovna, incensed by this remark, ‘as not to bring me any more letters. And tell whoever sent you here that he should be ashamed…’
But Hermann persisted. Every day, by one means or another, letters arrived from him. They were no longer translations from German. Hermann wrote in the inspiration of passion and he was speaking a language that came naturally to him: one that expressed both the intransigence of his desires and the disorder of an unbridled imagination. Lizaveta Ivanovna no longer thought of sending the letters back; she revelled in them and began to reply to them, and her messages grew longer and more tender by the hour. In the end, she threw out of the window to him a letter which read:
There is a ball tonight at the —— Ambassador’s. The Countess is attending. We shall stay till about two o’clock. This gives us an opportunity for you to see me alone. As soon as the Countess goes out, her servants will probably leave their stations; the hall-porter will remain by the entrance, but even he usually retires to his closet. Come at half past eleven. Walk straight up the stairs. If you meet anyone in the ante-room, ask whether the Countess is at home. They will say ‘No’ – and that will be that. You will have to leave. But probably you won’t meet anyone. The maids will be in their room, all together. Go left out of the ante-room and keep straight on till you come to the Countess’s bedroom. In the bedroom, behind the screen, you will see two small doors. The one on the right is to a study, which the Countess never enters; the one on the left opens on to a passage – and then there’s a narrow little spiral staircase, which leads to my bedroom.
Hermann quivered like a tiger as he waited for the appointed time. By ten o’clock in the evening he was standing outside the Countess’s house. The weather was terrible: the wind howled, wet flakes of snow were falling; the lanterns burned dim; the streets were deserted. From time to time, on the lookout for a late fare, a cabby would drive by with a scrawny horse. Wearing only a frock coat, Hermann felt neither the wind nor the snow. At last the Countess’s carriage was brought round. Hermann watched as the footmen brought out a hunched-up old woman wrapped in a sable coat; behind her, in a chilly cloak, her head adorned with fresh flowers, he glimpsed her ward. Doors slammed. The carriage moved heavily off through the soft snow. The hall porter closed the front door. The windows went dark. Hermann paced up and down in front of the deserted house: he went up to a lantern and looked at his watch – it was twenty past eleven. He stayed under the lantern, eyes fixed on the hands of his watch, as he waited out the remaining minutes. At exactly half past eleven, Hermann walked up the steps to the Countess’s porch and entered the brightly lit lobby. There was no hall porter. Hermann ran up the stairs, opened the door into the ante-room and found a servant asleep under a lamp in an ancient, stained armchair. With a light, resolute step Hermann walked past him. The hall and drawing room were dark, lit only dimly from the ante-room. Hermann entered the bedroom. Before a case filled with ancient icons burned a gold lamp. Standing in sad symmetry along walls hung with Chinese silk were down-cushioned sofas, their gilt flaking off, and chairs upholstered in faded damask. On one of the walls hung two portraits painted in Paris by Mme Lebrun.6 The first was of a stout, florid man, about forty years old, in a light-green uniform with a star; the other was of a young beauty with an aquiline nose and a rose in her powdered hair, which was combed back off the temples. Every nook and corner was filled with porcelain shepherdesses, clocks made by the celebrated Leroys,7 little boxes, bandalores, fans, and other ladies’ playthings that had been invented, along with the Montgolfier balloon and Mesmer’s magnetism,8 at the end of the previous century. Hermann went behind the screen. There he found a small iron bedstead. To the right was the door to the study; to the left – the other door, into the passage. Hermann opened this door and saw the narrow spiral staircase that led to the bedroom of the poor young ward. But he turned back and entered the dark study.
Time passed slowly. Everything was quiet. In the drawing room a clock struck twelve; in one room after another clocks struck twelve – and everything fell silent again. Hermann stood there, leaning against the cold stove. He was calm; his heart was beating evenly, as does the heart of a man who has resolved upon something dangerous but unavoidable. The clocks struck one, then two – and he heard the distant rumble of a carriage. He was seized by an involuntary excitement. The carriage drew up and stopped. He heard a knock as the steps were let down. The household began to stir. People ran about, voices were raised and lights were lit. Three aged maids hurried into the bedroom and the Countess, half dead, lowered herself into a Voltaire armchair.9 Hermann watched through a crack: Lizaveta Ivanovna walked past him. Hermann heard her hurrying steps on the treads of her stairs. In response something like a pang of conscience answered in his heart, then fell silent. He became like stone.
The Countess began to undress in front of the mirror. Her rosedecked bonnet was unpinned; her powdered wig was removed from her grey and close-cropped head. Pins showered down around her. A yellow dress, embroidered with silver, dropped to her swollen feet. Hermann was a witness to the revolting mysteries of her toilette. At last the Countess was in her bedjacket and nightcap; in this garb, more appropriate to her age, she seemed less terrible and hideous.
Like a great many old people, the Countess suffered from insomnia. After undressing, she sat down by the window in her Voltaire armchair and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken away; once more the room was lit only by the icon-lamp. The Countess sat there, all yellow, twitching her pendulous lips and rocking from side to side. Her cloudy eyes showed a total absence of thought; looking at the frightening old woman, one might have imagined that this rocking was effected not by her will but by the action of some hidden galvanism.10
An extraordinary change came over the dead face. Her lips stopped twitching, her eyes came to life: before the Countess stood a man she had never seen.
‘Don’t be frightened, for the love of God, don’t be frightened!’ he said in a clear, quiet voice. ‘I have no intention of harming you; I’ve come to beg a favour of you.’
The old woman looked silently at him and seemed not to hear him. Hermann thought she was deaf, bent down over her ear and said the same thing again. The old woman remained silent.
‘You have the power,’ Hermann went on, ‘at no cost to yourself, to make me a happy man. I know you can guess three cards in sequence…’
He stopped. The Countess, it seemed, had understood what was being asked of her; it seemed she was trying to find words for an answer.
‘That was a joke,’ she said at last. ‘I swear to you! It was a joke!’
‘This is no joking matter,’ Hermann replied crossly. ‘Remember Chaplitsky, how you helped him win back his losses.’
The Countess was visibly perturbed. Her features registered a strong movement of the soul, but she quickly fell back into her former apathy.
‘Can you,’ Hermann went on, ‘tell me those three true cards?’
The Countess remained silent; Hermann went on: ‘For whom are you keeping your secret? For your grandchildren? They’re rich anyway; they don’t know the value of money. Your three cards can’t help a spendthrift. He who doesn’t look after his patrimony will die in poverty; the devil himself can’t change that. I’m not a spendthrift; I know the value of money. Your three cards will not be wasted on me. Well?’
He waited, quivering, for her answer. The Countess said nothing; Hermann fell to his knees.
‘If ever,’ he said, ‘your heart has known the feeling of love, if you can remember its ecstasies; if you have ever smiled at the cry of a new-born son; if anything human has at any time stirred in your breast, then I implore you by your feelings as a wife, as a mistress, as a mother, by all that is sacred in life – do not refuse me what I ask! Tell me your secret! What use is it to you? Maybe it is linked to some terrible sin, to the loss of eternal bliss, to a diabolical pact. Think: you are old; you don’t have long to live, and I am willing to take you
r sin upon my own soul. Only tell me your secret. Think: a man’s happiness lies in your hands. Not only I, but my children, my grandchildren and great-grandchildren will bless your memory and hold it sacred.’
The old woman answered not a word.
Hermann stood.
‘Old witch!’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘Then I shall force you to answer.’
With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket.
Seeing the pistol, the Countess for the second time showed strong feeling. She nodded her head and raised one hand, as if shielding herself from a shot. Then she fell back… and remained motionless.
‘Don’t be childish,’ said Hermann, taking her by the hand. ‘I’m asking for the last time: will you tell me your three cards? Yes, or no?’
The Countess did not answer. Hermann realized she was dead.
4
7 May 18—
Homme sans mæurs et sans religion! 11
from a correspondence
Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball gown, plunged deep in thought. On returning home, she had been quick to dismiss the sleepy maid who reluctantly offered her services; she said she would undress on her own and went quivering to her room, hoping to find Hermann and wanting not to find him. One glance was enough to assure her of his absence, and she thanked Fate for the obstacle that had prevented their tryst. She sat down without undressing and began to recall all the circumstances that had enticed her such a great distance in so short a time. It was not yet three weeks since she had first, through the window, seen this young man – and she was already corresponding with him, and she had yielded to his demand for a nocturnal tryst! She knew his name only because some of his letters were signed; she had never spoken to him, never heard his voice, never heard anything about him – until this evening. It was strange. This very evening, at the ball, Tomsky, in a huff with the young Princess Polina ——, who had been flirting for once with someone other than him, had wanted to avenge himself through a show of indifference; he had taken Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced an endless mazurka12 with her. All through it, he teased her about her liking for engineers; he assured her that he knew a great deal more than she might imagine, and some of his jokes were so near the mark that Lizaveta Ivanovna more than once thought he knew her secret.
‘Who have you learned all this from?’ she asked, laughing.
‘From a most remarkable fellow,’ Tomsky replied. ‘A friend of someone you know.’
‘And who is this remarkable fellow?’
‘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 figure. He has the profile of Napoleon – and the soul of Mephistopheles. Weighing on his conscience, I believe, are at least three evil deeds. How pale you’ve gone!’
‘I’ve got a headache. So what did you learn from this Hermann – or whatever his name is?’
‘Hermann is most annoyed with his friend. Were he in his friend’s place, he says, he would act quite differently. I even think Hermann has designs on you himself. At the very least, he seems far from indifferent when he listens to the enamoured outpourings of his friend.’
‘But where has he seen me?’
‘In church, perhaps, or when you were out and about. God knows! Perhaps while you were asleep in your room. I wouldn’t put it past him.’
Three ladies came up to them with the question oubli ou regret?,13 cutting short a conversation that Lizaveta Ivanovna was finding unbearably fascinating.
Tomsky’s new partner was the Princess Polina. Dancing one more time round the room and spinning round one more time in front of her chair, she managed to make her peace with him. By the time he returned to his place, Tomsky was no longer thinking either of Hermann or of Lizaveta Ivanovna. Lizaveta Ivanovna had desperately wanted to renew the interrupted conversation, but the mazurka had come to an end and soon afterwards the old Countess had taken her leave.
Tomsky’s words were mere ballroom chatter, but they had sunk deep into the soul of the young dreamer. The portrait sketched by Tomsky was similar to the image she had formed herself and, thanks to the latest novels, this already hackneyed figure frightened and captivated her imagination. She sat in her room, her bare arms crossed and her head, still adorned with flowers, bent down over her breast. Suddenly the door opened and Hermann came in. She quivered.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked in a frightened whisper.
‘In the old Countess’s bedroom,’ said Hermann. ‘I’ve just left her. The Countess is dead.’
‘My God! What are you saying?’
‘And I seem,’ Hermann went on, ‘to have been the cause of her death.’
Lizaveta Ivanovna looked at him; in her soul echoed Tomsky’s words: on his conscience are at least three evil deeds! Hermann sat down beside her, on the window seat, and told her everything.
Lizaveta Ivanovna listened to him in horror. So the passionate letters, the ardent demands, the audacious, persistent pursuit – all this had not been love! What his soul craved was money! She herself had no power to assuage his desires and make him happy. The poor ward had been nothing but a blind accomplice to a brigand, to the murderer of her aged benefactress! She wept bitterly in her belated, anguished remorse. Hermann watched her in silence; he too was in torment, but what troubled his stern soul was neither the poor girl’s tears nor the surprising charm of her grief. Nor did he feel any pang of conscience at the thought of the old woman’s death. Only one thing appalled him: the irrevocable loss of a secret that was to have brought him wealth.
‘You monster!’ said Lizaveta Ivanovna at last.
‘I didn’t want her to die,’ said Hermann. ‘My pistol is not loaded.’
They fell silent.
Day was breaking. Lizaveta Ivanovna extinguished the candle, now burning down; pale light illumined her room. She wiped the tears from her eyes and glanced up at Hermann: he was sitting on the window-seat, arms folded, frowning grimly. In this pose he looked astonishingly like a portrait of Napoleon. This likeness amazed even Lizaveta Ivanovna.
‘How are you going to leave the house?’ said Lizaveta Ivanovna at last. ‘I’d meant to take you down the secret staircase, but that means going through the Countess’s bedroom, and I’m frightened.’
‘Tell me how to find this secret staircase; I must leave.’
Lizaveta Ivanovna got up, took a key from her chest, handed it to Hermann and gave him detailed instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, unresponsive hand, kissed her bowed head and left.
He went down the spiral staircase and once again entered the Countess’s bedroom. The dead old woman sat there, turned to stone; her face expressed a deep calm. Hermann stopped in front of her; he looked at her for a long time, as if wanting to be sure of the terrible truth; at last he entered the study, felt behind the wall hangings till he found the door, and began to descend a dark staircase, troubled by strange feelings. Up this same staircase, Hermann was thinking, perhaps sixty years before, at this same hour, his hair coiffeured à l’oiseau royal,14 wearing an embroidered coat and pressing his three-cornered hat to his heart, a fortunate young man – now long rotted away in his grave – had crept to the same bedroom; and today the heart of his aged mistress had ceased to beat.
At the foot of the staircase Hermann came to a door, which he unlocked with the key – and he found himself in a passage that led him out on to the street.
5
That night the late Baroness von V —— appeared to me. She was all in white and she said to me: ‘Good evening, Mister Councillor!’
Swedenborg15
Three days after the fateful night, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hermann set out for the convent where the funeral rites for the body of the deceased Countess were to be sung. Though unrepentant, he could not altogether silence the voice of his conscience, which kept repeating, ‘You are the old woman’s murderer!’ Having litt
le true faith, he had a great number of superstitions. He believed that the dead Countess might have an evil influence on his life, and he had resolved to attend her funeral and so win her forgiveness.
The church was full. Hermann could barely make his way through the crowd of people. The coffin stood on an opulent catafalque under a velvet canopy. The deceased lay with her arms folded across her breast, in a lace cap and a white satin dress. Around the coffin stood her household: the servants holding candles and wearing black kaftans with the family crest sewn onto the shoulder; the relatives – children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren – all in deep mourning. No one wept: tears would have been une affectation. The Countess was so very old that her death could not have been a surprise to anyone, and her family had long seen her as someone from another era. A young bishop gave the funeral address. In simple and moving words he described the peaceful dormition of a righteous woman whose long years had been a quiet, touching preparation for a Christian end. ‘The angel of death discovered her,’ he said, ‘vigilant in pious thought and waiting for the Midnight Bridegroom.’ The service was conducted with sad decorum. The relatives were first to go up and take leave of the body. They were followed by the Countess’s numerous guests, who had come to pay their respects to one who for so long had been a part of their vain merriments. Next came the household servants. Last of all, an old retainer, a woman the same age as the deceased, went up to the coffin; two young girls supported her, each taking an arm. She did not have the strength to bow down to the ground, and she alone shed tears as she kissed the cold hand of her mistress. After her, Hermann summoned his resolve to go up to the coffin. He bent down to the ground and prostrated himself for several minutes on the cold floor, which was strewn with sprigs of fir. Finally, pale as the deceased, he got to his feet, climbed the steps to the catafalque and bent down towards her. At that moment it seemed to him that the dead woman screwed up one eye and gave him a mocking wink. Hermann stepped quickly backwards, lost his footing and crashed to the ground, flat on his back. He was helped to his feet. At the same time, Lizaveta Ivanovna was carried out of the church in a faint. The solemnity of the sombre rite was disturbed by this episode for several minutes. The visitors all began murmuring and a gaunt chamberlain, a close relative of the deceased, whispered into the ear of an Englishman standing beside him that the young officer was her illegitimate son, to which the Englishman responded with a cold ‘Oh?’
Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics) Page 4
