The Queen of Spades (Pushkin)
Short summary
St. Petersburg, early 19th century. At a card party, Tomsky told a story about his grandmother, an elderly Countess, who once learned a secret of three winning cards from the mysterious Count St. Germain in Paris sixty years earlier.
Hermann, a young Engineer officer, became obsessed with discovering this secret.
He began standing outside the Countess's house daily, watching her ward, Lizaveta Ivanovna, at the window.
Hermann began a correspondence with Lizaveta, eventually convincing her to arrange a secret meeting. He entered the Countess's house while she was at a ball and hid in her bedroom. When the elderly Countess returned, Hermann confronted her and demanded she reveal the secret of the three cards.
When she refused, he drew a pistol, and she died of fright. That night, the Countess's ghost appeared to Hermann and revealed the secret: three, seven, ace—but only if he married Lizaveta. Hermann ignored this condition and went to gamble at Chekalinsky's establishment. He won twice by betting on three and seven, but on the third night, when he expected an ace,
Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him the queen of spades! He could not believe his eyes... it seemed to him that the queen of spades smiled ironically and winked her eye at him.
Hermann went mad and was confined to a hospital, constantly muttering the cards. Lizaveta married another man, while Tomsky became a captain and married Princess Pauline.
Detailed summary by chapters
Chapter titles are editorial.
Chapter 1. The card party and the legend of the three cards
A card party took place at the rooms of an officer of the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed imperceptibly, and it was five o'clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those who had won ate with good appetite, while the losers stared absently at their empty plates. When champagne appeared, the conversation became more animated.
The host asked one of the guests about his luck. The man confessed he always lost, despite playing carefully and keeping his composure. Another guest pointed to a young Engineer officer who had never held a card in his life, never laid a wager, yet sat watching their play until five in the morning.
Hermann explained his interest:
Play interests me very much, but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.
An officer named Tomsky observed that Hermann was economical because he was German, but added that there was one person he could not understand—his grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna. When asked why, Tomsky explained he could not understand why his grandmother did not punt. The host remarked there was nothing remarkable about an old lady of eighty not gambling.
Tomsky then told a remarkable story. About sixty years ago, his grandmother went to Paris where she created quite a sensation as the 'Muscovite Venus.' She lost a considerable sum at faro to the Duke of Orleans. When she informed her husband of the debt and ordered him to pay, he refused. Her husband was a sort of house-steward who dreaded her, but on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went out of his mind and refused point blank to pay. The grandmother gave him a box on the ear and slept by herself as punishment, but he remained inflexible.
Not knowing what to do, the grandmother turned to a very remarkable man she had recently met—Count St. Germain, about whom many marvellous stories were told. He represented himself as the Wandering Jew and the discoverer of the elixir of life. Despite the mystery surrounding him, St. Germain was very fascinating and much sought after in the best circles. The grandmother wrote to him asking him to come without delay. The old man found her overwhelmed with grief. She described her husband's barbarity and declared her whole hope depended upon St. Germain's friendship.
St. Germain reflected and told her he could advance the sum, but knew she would not rest easy until she had paid him back. However, there was another way—she could win back her money. When the grandmother protested she had no money left, St. Germain replied that money was not necessary. He then revealed to her a secret for which each of them would give a good deal. That same evening the grandmother went to Versailles. She chose three cards and played them one after the other:
Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us would give a good deal... She chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won sonika, and my grandmother recovered every farthing
One guest suggested it was mere chance, another called it a tale, a third wondered if the cards were marked. Tomsky replied gravely that he did not think so. When asked why he had never succeeded in getting the secret from his grandmother, Tomsky explained she had four sons, all determined gamblers, yet she never revealed her secret to any of them. However, he had heard from his uncle that the late Chaplitzky, who died in poverty after squandering millions, once lost about three hundred thousand roubles in his youth. The grandmother took pity on him and gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, exacting a solemn promise that he would never play cards again. Chaplitzky went to his opponent and won back more than he had lost. With that, Tomsky announced it was time to go to bed, as it was already beginning to dawn.
Chapter 2. The old Countess and her ward Lizaveta
The old Countess sat in her dressing-room before her looking-glass, attended by three waiting maids. She no longer had any pretensions to beauty but preserved the habits of her youth, dressing in strict accordance with the fashion of seventy years before. Near the window sat a young lady at an embroidery frame—her ward.
A young officer entered and greeted his grandmother, asking to introduce one of his friends and bring him to the ball on Friday. The Countess told him to bring his friend directly to the ball. The officer mentioned how charming a certain lady was at a recent party, but the Countess remarked that the lady must be very old, like her grandmother. The officer thoughtlessly cried that she had died seven years ago. The young lady raised her head and made a sign to him, reminding him that the old Countess was never to be informed of the death of any contemporaries. He bit his lips, but the Countess heard the news with indifference and began relating one of her anecdotes for the hundredth time.
After the Countess went behind a screen to finish her toilette, Tomsky was left alone with the young lady. Lizaveta asked who the gentleman was that he wished to introduce. When Tomsky answered it was an officer in the Cavalry, she smiled but made no reply. The Countess called from behind the screen, asking for a new novel—one in which the hero strangles neither his father nor mother and in which there are no drowned bodies. Tomsky asked what made Lizaveta think his friend was in the Engineers and then left.
Left alone, Lizaveta laid aside her work and began to look out the window. A few moments later, at 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 down over the frame. The Countess returned completely dressed and ordered the carriage. When Lizaveta arose to arrange her work, the Countess asked if she was deaf and told her to order the carriage at once. A servant entered with books, and the Countess told Lizaveta to sit down and read aloud. After reading a few pages, the Countess yawned and asked where the carriage was. When told it was ready, she asked why Lizaveta was not dressed, complaining she must always wait. Lizaveta hastened to her room, but had not been there two minutes before the Countess began ringing. When Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak, the Countess asked why such an elaborate toilette, then decided the weather was too windy and they would not go out after all.
Lizaveta thought to herself what a life was hers. Indeed, she was a very unfortunate creature. The Countess was capricious, avaricious, and egotistical. She participated in all the vanities of the great world, sitting in a corner at balls like a deformed but indispensable ornament. Her numerous domestics did as they liked and robbed her in the most bare-faced manner. Lizaveta was the martyr of the household. She made tea and was reproached for using too much sugar, read novels aloud and the author's faults were visited upon her head, accompanied the Countess on walks and was held answerable for the weather. A salary was attached to her post but she very rarely received it. In society she played the most pitiable role—everybody knew her and nobody paid her any attention. Many a time did she quietly slink away to cry in her own poor little room.
Chapter 3. Hermanns obsession and the fateful plan
One morning, about two days after the evening party and a week before the previous scene, Lizaveta was seated at her embroidery frame near the window when she caught sight of a young Engineer officer standing motionless with his eyes fixed upon her window. She lowered her head and went on with her work. About five minutes later she looked out again—the officer was still there. Not being in the habit of coquetting with passing officers, she did not continue gazing but went on sewing. After dinner she went to the window with a feeling of uneasiness, but the officer was no longer there.
A couple of days later, just as she was stepping into the carriage with the Countess, she saw him again, standing close behind the door with his face half-concealed by his fur collar, but his dark eyes sparkling beneath his cap. Lizaveta felt alarmed and trembled as she seated herself. On returning home, she hastened to the window—the officer was standing in his accustomed place. She drew back, a prey to curiosity and agitated by a feeling quite new to her. From that time forward not a day passed without the young officer making his appearance, and between them was established a sort of mute acquaintance. After about a week she commenced to smile at him.
When Tomsky asked permission to present one of his friends to his grandmother, the young girl's heart beat violently. But hearing the friend was not an Engineer, she regretted that by her thoughtless question she had betrayed her secret to the volatile Tomsky. Hermann was the son of a German who had become a naturalized Russian. Being firmly convinced of the necessity of preserving his independence, Hermann did not touch his private income but lived on his pay. Moreover, he was reserved and ambitious. He had strong passions and an ardent imagination, but his firmness of disposition preserved him from ordinary errors. Though a gamester at heart, he never touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow him to risk the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous, yet he would sit for nights at the card table following with feverish anxiety the different turns of the game.
The story of the three cards had produced a powerful impression upon his imagination:
The story of the three cards had produced a powerful impression upon his imagination, and all night long he could think of nothing else... Economy, temperance and industry: those are my three winning cards
Musing in this manner, he walked until he found himself before a house of antiquated architecture. The street was blocked with equipages drawing up before the brilliantly illuminated doorway. Hermann asked a watchman whose house it was and learned it belonged to the Countess. The strange story again presented itself to his imagination. He began walking up and down before the house, thinking of its owner and her strange secret. Returning late to his lodging, he could not sleep, and when he did doze off, he dreamed of nothing but cards, green tables, piles of banknotes and heaps of ducats. When he woke late the next morning, he found himself once more in front of the Countess's residence. Some unknown power seemed to have attracted him thither. At one window he saw a head with luxuriant black hair bent down over a book or embroidery frame. The head was raised, and Hermann saw a fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment decided his fate.
Chapter 4. The confrontation and the Countesss death
Lizaveta had scarcely taken off her hat and cloak when the Countess sent for her and ordered the carriage ready again. Just as two footmen were assisting the old lady to enter, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing close beside the wheel. He grasped her hand and left a letter between her fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during the whole drive she neither saw nor heard anything. The Countess became angry at her vague and absurd answers. On returning home, Lizaveta ran to her room and drew the letter from her glove. It was not sealed and contained a declaration of love, tender, respectful, and copied word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta did not know German and was quite delighted.
For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy. For the first time in her life she was entering into secret relations with a young man. His boldness alarmed her. She reproached herself for her imprudent behaviour and knew not what to do. At length she resolved to reply. She sat down at her writing-table and began to think. Several times she began her letter and tore it up. At last she succeeded in writing a few lines with which she felt satisfied, assuring him his intentions must be honourable and returning his letter, hoping she would never have cause to complain of this undeserved slight.
The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lizaveta rose from her embroidery, went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator and threw the letter into the street, trusting the young officer would pick it up. Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and repaired to a confectioner's shop. Breaking the seal, he found inside his own letter and Lizaveta's reply. He had expected this and returned home, his mind deeply occupied with his intrigue. Three days later, a bright-eyed young girl from a milliner's establishment brought Lizaveta a letter. Hermann requested an interview. Lizaveta cried it could not be and tore the letter into fragments. But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every day Lizaveta received from him a letter. They were no longer translated from German—Hermann wrote them under the inspiration of passion. Lizaveta no longer thought of sending them back. She became intoxicated with them and began to reply, and little by little her answers became longer and more affectionate. At last she threw out the window a letter inviting him to come that evening when the Countess would be at a ball at the Embassy.
Hermann trembled 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's house. The weather was terrible—wind blew with great violence, sleety snow fell in large flakes. At last the Countess's carriage drew up. Hermann saw two footmen carry out the bent form of the old lady wrapped in sable fur, and immediately behind her, clad in a warm mantle with her head ornamented with fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door was closed and the carriage rolled away heavily through the yielding snow. Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted house. At half-past eleven precisely, he ascended the steps, made his way into the brightly-illuminated vestibule, and hastily ascended the staircase. The porter was not there. Hermann opened the door of the ante-room and saw a footman sitting asleep. With a light firm step Hermann passed by him. The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness.
Hermann reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a shrine full of old images, a golden lamp was burning. Faded chairs and divans stood in melancholy symmetry, the walls hung with China silk. On one side hung two portraits painted in Paris. In the corners stood porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and various playthings from the end of the last century. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the back stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door to the cabinet, on the left the door to the corridor. He opened the latter and saw the little winding staircase which led to the room of the poor companion. But he retraced his steps and entered the dark cabinet. The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock struck twelve, 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—servants running hither and thither, confusion of voices, rooms lit up. Three antiquated chamber-maids entered the bedroom, shortly followed by the Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair. Hermann peeped through a chink. Lizaveta passed close by him, and he heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the spiral staircase. For a moment his heart was assailed by something like a pricking of conscience, but the emotion was only transitory.
The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. Her rose-bedecked cap was taken off, then her powdered wig was removed from her white and closely-cut hair. Hairpins fell in showers around her. Her yellow satin dress 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 she appeared less hideous and deformed. Like all old people, 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. 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.
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. Hermann said in a low but distinct voice that he had no intention of harming her, that he had only come to ask a favour. The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard. Hermann thought she was deaf and repeated what he had said. The aged Countess remained silent. Hermann continued that she could insure the happiness of his life and it would cost her nothing—he knew she could name three cards in order. Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to understand what he wanted. She replied at last that it was only a joke. Hermann replied angrily there was no joking about the matter and reminded her of Chaplitzky, whom she had helped to win.
The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features expressed strong emotion, but they quickly resumed their former immobility. Hermann asked again if she could name the three winning cards. The Countess remained silent. Hermann continued, asking for whom she was preserving her secret—for her grandsons who were rich enough without it and did not know the worth of money. He fell upon his knees:
If your heart has ever known the feeling of love... if any human feeling has ever entered into your breast, I entreat you... not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me your secret.
He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The Countess remained silent. Hermann rose to his feet and exclaimed that she was an old hag, and that he would make her 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 fell backwards and remained motionless. Hermann took hold of her hand and asked for the last time if she would tell him the names of her three cards. The Countess made no reply. Hermann perceived that she was dead.
Lizaveta was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress, lost in deep thought. On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the chambermaid and gone up to her own room, expecting to find Hermann there but yet hoping not to find him. At the first glance she convinced herself he was not there and thanked her fate. She sat down without undressing and began to recall all the circumstances which in so short a time had carried her so far. It was not three weeks since she first saw the young officer from the window, and yet she was already in correspondence with him. She knew his name only through his letters and had never spoken to him or heard his voice. But that very evening at the ball, Tomsky, being piqued with a young Princess who did not flirt with him, wished to revenge himself by assuming an air of indifference. He engaged Lizaveta and danced an endless mazurka with her. During the whole time he kept teasing her about her partiality for Engineer officers, assuring her he knew far more than she imagined. Some of his jests were so happily aimed that Lizaveta thought several times her secret was known to him.
When she asked from whom he had learnt all this, Tomsky replied it was from a friend of a person very well known to her—a very distinguished man named Hermann. Lizaveta made no reply, but her hands and feet lost all sense of feeling. Tomsky continued that Hermann was a man of romantic personality with the profile of a Napoleon and the soul of a Mephistopheles, and that he believed Hermann had at least three crimes upon his conscience. Lizaveta asked what this Hermann had told him. Tomsky said Hermann was very much dissatisfied with his friend and that in his place he would act very differently—he even thought Hermann himself had designs upon her. Three ladies interrupted the conversation. Tomsky conducted the Princess to her chair and thought no more 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 words sank deep into the soul of the young dreamer. The portrait sketched by Tomsky coincided with the picture she had formed within her own mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the ordinary countenance of her admirer became invested with attributes capable of alarming and fascinating her imagination at the same time. She was now sitting with her bare arms crossed and her head, still adorned with flowers, sunk upon her uncovered bosom. Suddenly the door opened and Hermann entered. She shuddered. 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 desires, this bold obstinate pursuit, all this was not love! Money was what his soul yearned for:
Money--that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy his desire... The poor girl had been nothing but the blind tool of a robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress!
She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance. Hermann gazed at her in silence. His heart too was a prey to violent emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl nor the wonderful charm of her beauty enhanced by her grief could produce any impression upon his hardened soul. He felt no pricking of conscience at the thought of the dead old woman. One thing only grieved him—the irreparable loss of the secret from which he had expected to obtain great wealth. Lizaveta at last said he was a monster. Hermann replied he did not wish for her death—his pistol was not loaded. Both remained 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 towards Hermann. He was sitting near the window with his arms crossed and a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance struck Lizaveta even. She asked how she should get him out of the house. She thought of conducting him down the secret staircase but in that case it would be necessary to go through the Countess's bedroom, and she was afraid. Hermann told her to find the secret staircase—he would go alone. Lizaveta arose, took a key from her drawer, handed it to Hermann and gave him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, limp hand, kissed her bowed head, and left the room.
He descended the winding staircase and once more entered the Countess's bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified, her face expressing profound tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her and gazed long and earnestly at her, as if he wished to convince himself of the terrible reality. At last he entered the cabinet, felt behind the tapestry for the door, and began to descend the dark staircase, filled with strange emotions. Down this very staircase, he thought, perhaps sixty years ago at this very same hour, there may have glided in an embroidered coat some young gallant who has long been mouldering in the grave, but 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 a key, and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the street.
Chapter 5. The funeral and the ghostly revelation
Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning, Hermann repaired to a convent where the last honours were to be paid to the mortal remains of the old Countess. Although feeling no remorse, he could not altogether stifle the voice of conscience which said to him he was the murderer of the old woman. In spite of entertaining very little religious belief, he was exceedingly superstitious. Believing that the dead Countess might exercise an evil influence on his life, he resolved to be present at her obsequies in order to implore her pardon. The church was full. It was with difficulty that Hermann made his way through the crowd. The coffin was placed upon a rich catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin. The deceased Countess lay within it with her hands crossed upon her breast, with a lace cap upon her head and dressed in a white satin robe. Around the catafalque stood the members of her household in black caftans with armorial ribbons upon their shoulders and candles in their hands, and the relatives in deep mourning. Nobody wept—tears would have been an affectation. The Countess was so old that her death could have surprised nobody.
A famous preacher pronounced the funeral sermon. In simple and touching words he described the peaceful passing away of the righteous who had passed long years in calm preparation for a Christian end. The service concluded amidst profound silence. The relatives went forward first to take farewell of the corpse, then followed the numerous guests, then the members of the Countess's household. The last of these was an old woman of the same age as the deceased. Two young women led her forward by the hand. She had not strength enough to bow down to the ground—she merely shed a few tears and kissed the cold hand of her mistress. Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin. He knelt down upon the cold stones and remained in that position for some minutes. At last he arose, as pale as the deceased Countess herself. He 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. Several persons hurried forward and raised him up. At the same moment Lizaveta was borne fainting into the porch of the church. This episode disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the gloomy ceremony.
During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely excited. Repairing to an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, he drank a great deal of wine, contrary to his usual custom, in the hope of deadening 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 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 his ante-room open. Hermann thought it was his orderly, drunk as usual, returning from some nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard footsteps that were unknown to him—somebody was walking softly over 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 recognised the Countess.
She said in a firm voice:
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.
She added that she forgave him her death on condition that he marry her companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna. With these words she turned round very quietly, walked with a shuffling gait towards the door and disappeared. Hermann heard the street-door open and shut, and again he saw someone look in at him through the window. For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He then rose up and entered the next room. His orderly was lying asleep upon the floor, and he had much difficulty in waking him. The orderly was drunk as usual, and no information could be obtained from him. The street-door was locked. Hermann returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote down all the details of his vision.
Chapter 6. The fateful game and Hermanns madness
Two fixed ideas can no 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 thought of the dead Countess... were perpetually running through his head and continually being repeated by his lips.
If he saw a young girl, he would say she was slender like the three of hearts. If anybody asked the time, he would reply it was five minutes to seven. Every stout man reminded him of the ace. The numbers haunted him in his sleep and assumed all possible shapes. The threes bloomed before him as magnificent flowers, the sevens were represented by Gothic portals, and the aces became transformed into gigantic spiders. One thought alone occupied his whole mind—to make a profitable use of the secret which he had purchased so dearly. He thought of applying for a furlough to travel abroad and tempt fortune in the public gambling-houses of Paris. Chance spared him all this trouble.
There was in Moscow a society of rich gamesters, presided over by the celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed all his life at the card-table and had amassed millions. His long experience secured for him the confidence of his companions, and his open house, famous cook, and agreeable manners gained for him the respect of the public. He came to St. Petersburg, and the young men of the capital flocked to his rooms. Narumov conducted Hermann to Chekalinsky's residence.
They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms filled with attentive domestics. The place was crowded. Generals and Privy Counsellors were playing at whist, young men were lolling carelessly upon velvet-covered sofas eating ices and smoking pipes. In the drawing-room, at the head of a long table around which were assembled 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 very dignified appearance. His head was covered with silvery-white hair, his full florid countenance expressed good-nature, and his eyes 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 occupied some time. On the table lay more than thirty cards. Chekalinsky paused after each throw to give the players time to arrange their cards and note down their losses. At last the game was finished. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.
Hermann stretched out his hand from behind a stout gentleman and asked if he might take a card. Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently in acquiescence. Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on his abjuration of that abstention from cards which he had practised for so long, and wished him a lucky beginning. Hermann wrote some figures with chalk on the back of his card. When the banker asked how much, contracting the muscles of his eyes, Hermann replied forty-seven thousand rubles. At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round, and all eyes were fixed upon Hermann. Narumov thought he had taken leave of his senses. Chekalinsky, with his eternal smile, informed Hermann that he was playing very high—nobody there had ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five rubles at once. Hermann replied asking if Chekalinsky accepted his card or not. Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent, observing that although he had the greatest confidence in his friends, he could only play against ready money. Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed it to Chekalinsky, who examined it in a cursory manner and placed it on Hermann's card.
He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on the left a three. Hermann showed his card and said he had won. A murmur of astonishment arose among the players. Chekalinsky frowned, but the smile quickly returned to his face. He asked if Hermann wished him to settle, and Hermann replied if he pleased. Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of banknotes and paid at once. Hermann took up his money and left the table. Narumov could not recover from his astonishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and returned home.
The next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky's. The host was dealing. Hermann walked up to the table and the punters immediately made room for him. Chekalinsky greeted him with a gracious bow. Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed upon it his forty-seven thousand roubles together with his winnings of the previous evening. Chekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the right, a seven on the left. Hermann showed his seven. There was a general exclamation. Chekalinsky was evidently ill at ease, but he counted out the ninety-four thousand rubles 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 Counsellors left their whist to watch such extraordinary play. The young officers quitted their sofas, and even the servants crowded into 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 pack of cards. Chekalinsky shuffled. Hermann took a card and covered it with a pile of bank-notes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned around. Chekalinsky began to deal, his hands trembling. On the right a queen turned up, and on the left an ace. Hermann cried that ace had won and showed his card. Chekalinsky said politely that his queen had lost. 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 smiled ironically and winked her eye at him. He was struck by her remarkable resemblance to the old Countess. Hermann exclaimed, seized with terror. Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings. For some time Hermann remained perfectly motionless. When at last he left the table, there was a general commotion in the room. The players said he had punted splendidly. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards afresh, and the game went on as usual.
Hermann went out of his mind:
Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in room Number 17... He never answers any questions, but he constantly mutters with unusual rapidity: Three, seven, ace! Three, seven, queen!
Lizaveta Ivanovna married a very amiable young man, a son of the former steward of the old Countess. He was in the service of the State somewhere and was in receipt of a good income. Lizaveta was also supporting a poor relative. Tomsky was promoted to the rank of captain and became the husband of the Princess Pauline.