The Continental Classics, Volume XVIII | Page 8

time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the drawing-room
struck twelve, the strokes echoed through the room one after the other,
and everything was quiet 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. One o'clock in
the morning struck; then two, and he heard the distant noise of
carriage-wheels. An involuntary agitation took possession of him. The
carriage drew near and stopped. He heard the sound of the carriage
steps being let down. All was bustle within the house. The servants
were running hither and thither, there was a confusion of voices, and
the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chambermaids entered the
bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards followed by the Countess,
who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair. Hermann

peeped through a chink. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him, and he
heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral staircase. For
a moment his heart was assailed by something like a pricking of
conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, and his heart became
petrified as before.
The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. Her
rose-bedecked cap was taken off, and then her powdered wig was
removed from off her white and closely cut hair. Hairpins fell in
showers around her. Her yellow satin dress, brocaded with silver, fell
down at her swollen feet.
Hermann was a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her toilette; at
last the Countess was in her night-cap and dressing-gown, and in this
costume, more suitable to her age, she appeared less hideous and
deformed.
Like all old people, in general, the Countess suffered from
sleeplessness. Having undressed, she seated herself at the window in a
Voltaire armchair, and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken
away, and once more the room was left with only one lamp burning in
it. The Countess sat there looking quite yellow, mumbling with her
flaccid lips and swaying to and fro. Her dull eyes expressed complete
vacancy of mind, and, looking at her, one would have thought that the
rocking of her body was not a voluntary action of her own, but was
produced by the action of some concealed galvanic mechanism.
Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable expression. The
lips ceased to tremble, the eyes became animated: before the Countess
stood an unknown man.
"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 favor of you."
The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard what
he had said. Hermann thought that she was deaf, and, bending down
towards her ear, he repeated what he had said. The aged Countess

remained silent as before.
"You can insure the happiness of my life," continued Hermann, "and it
will cost you nothing. I know that you can name three cards in order--"
Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to understand what he
wanted; she seemed as if seeking for words to reply.
"It was a joke," she replied at last. "I assure you it was only a joke."
"There is no joking about the matter," replied Hermann, angrily.
"Remember Chaplitsky, whom you helped to win."
The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features expressed strong
emotion, but they quickly resumed their former immobility.
"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 your grandsons? They
are rich enough without it, they do not know the worth 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 thrown away upon 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 any human feeling has ever entered into your breast,
I entreat you by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all that is
most sacred in life, not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me your secret.
Of what use is it to you? May be it is connected with some terrible sin,
with the loss of eternal salvation, with some bargain with the devil.

Reflect, you are old, you have not long