The Queen of Spades 黑桃皇后

by Aleksandr S. Pushkin

I
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 play mirandole, I always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out, and yet I always lose!"
"And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red?... Your firmness astonishes me."
"But what do 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 laid a wager, 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 sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous."
"Hermann is a German: he is economical--that is all!" observed Tomsky. "But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna."
"How so?" inquired the guests.
"I cannot understand," continued Tomsky, "how it is that my grandmother does not punt."


"What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not punting?" said Narumov.
"Then you do not know the reason why?"
"No, really; haven't the faintest idea."
"Oh! then listen. 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 the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play at faro. On one occasion at the Court, she lost a very considerable sum 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 house-steward to my grandmother. He dreaded her like fire; but, on hearing 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 months she had spent half a million francs, that neither their Moscow nor Saratov estates were in Paris, and finally refused point blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear 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 entered into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be able to 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, my grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not rest there. My grandmother did not know what to do. She had shortly before become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count 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 charlatan; but Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding him, was a very fascinating person, and was much sought after in the best circles of society. Even to this day my grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of him, and becomes quite angry if any one 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 her whole hope depended upon his friendship and amiability.
"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 I 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 officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment and then continued:
"That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles to the jeu de la reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my grandmother excused herself in an off-hand manner for not having yet paid her debt, by inventing some little story, and then began to play against him. She chose three cards and played them one after the other: all three won sonika, [Said of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest possible time.] and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she had lost."
"Mere chance!" said one of the guests.
"A tale!" observed Hermann.
"Perhaps they were marked cards!" said a third.
"I do not think so," replied Tomsky gravely.
"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 were determined 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 it was true. The late Chaplitzky--the same who died in poverty after having squandered millions--once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand roubles--to Zorich, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. My grandmother, who was always very severe upon the extravagance of young men, took pity, however, upon Chaplitzky. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, at the same time exacting from him a solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as long as he lived. Chaplitzky then went to his victorious opponent, and they began a fresh game. On the first card he staked fifty thousand rubles and won sonika; he doubled the stake and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same tactics, he won back more than he had lost ...
"But it is time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six already."
And indeed it was already beginning to dawn: the young men emptied their glasses and then took leave of each other.
II
The old Countess A---- was seated in her dressing-room in front of her looking--glass. Three waiting maids stood around her. One held a small pot of rouge, another a box of hair-pins, and the third a tall can with bright red ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she still preserved the habits of her youth, dressed in strict accordance with the fashion of seventy years before, and made as long and as careful a toilette as she would have done sixty years previously. Near the window, at an embroidery frame, sat a young lady, her ward.
"Good morning, grandmamma," said a young officer, entering the room. "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grandmamma, I want to ask you something."
"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 direct to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at B----'s yesterday?"
"Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing was kept up until five o'clock. How charming Yeletzkaya was!"
"But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn't she like her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By the way, she must be very old, the Princess Daria Petrovna."
"How do you mean, old?" cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; "she died seven years ago."
The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young officer. He then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of the death of any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lips. But the old Countess heard the news with the greatest indifference.
"Dead!" said she; "and I did not know it. We were appointed maids of honour at the same time, and when we were presented to the Empress..."
And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her grandson one of her anecdotes.
"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 in a whisper.
"Narumov. Do you know him?"
"No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?"
"A soldier."
"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 don't let it be one of the present day style."
"What do you mean, grandmother?"
"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 drowned persons."
"There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a Russian one?"
"Are there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, pray send me one!"
"Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry... Good-bye, Lizaveta Ivanovna. What made you think that Narumov was in the Engineers?"
And Tomsky left the boudoir.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone: she laid aside her work and began to look out of the window. A few moments afterwards, 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. 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 arrange her work.
"What is the matter with you, my child, 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, hastening into the ante-room.
A servant entered and gave the Countess some books from Prince Paul Aleksandrovich.
"Tell him that I am much obliged to him," said the Countess. "Lizaveta! Lizaveta! 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 to me aloud."
Her companion took the book and read a few lines.
"Louder," said the Countess. "What is the matter with you, my child? 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 Paul with my thanks... But where is the carriage?"
"The carriage is ready," said Lizaveta, looking out into the street.
"How is it that 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 waiting-maids came running in at one door and the valet at another.
"How is it that you cannot hear me 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 captivate? What sort of weather is it? It seems rather windy."
"No, your Ladyship, it is very calm," replied the valet.
"You never think of what you are talking about. 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 like that."
"What a life is mine!" thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.
And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate creature. "The bread of the stranger is bitter," says Dante, "and his staircase hard to climb." But who can know what the bitterness of dependence is so well as the poor companion of an old lady of quality? The Countess A---- had by no means a bad heart, bat she was capricious, like a woman who had been spoilt by the world, as well as being avaricious and egotistical, like all old people who have seen their best days, 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 a deformed but indispensable ornament of the ball-room; all the guests on entering approached her and made a profound bow, as if in accordance with a set ceremony, but after that nobody took any further notice of her. She received the whole town at her house, and observed the strictest etiquette, although she could no longer recognise the faces of people. Her numerous domestics, growing fat and old in her ante-chamber and servants' hall, did just as they liked, and vied with each other in robbing the aged Countess in the most bare-faced manner. Lizaveta Ivanovna was the martyr of the household. She made tea, and was reproached with 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 was very self-conscious, and felt her position keenly, and she looked about her with impatience for a deliverer to come to her rescue; but the young men, calculating in their giddiness, honoured her with but very little attention, although Lizaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times prettier than the bare-faced and cold-hearted marriageable girls around whom they hovered. Many a time did she quietly slink away from the glittering but wearisome 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 burnt feebly in a copper candle-stick.
One morning--this was about two days after the evening 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 embroidery frame, when, happening to look out into the street, she caught sight of a young Engineer officer, 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 of the window, she perceived the officer again. This seemed to her very strange. After dinner she went to the window 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 behind the door, with his face half-concealed by his fur collar, but his dark eyes sparkled beneath his cap. 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 curiosity and agitated by a feeling which was quite new to her.
From that time forward not a day passed without the young officer making his appearance under the window at the customary hour, and between him and her there was established a sort of mute acquaintance. Sitting in her place at work, she used to 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: she saw with the sharp eye of youth, how a sudden flush covered his pale cheeks each time that their glances met. After about a week she commenced to smile 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, 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 naturalised Russian, and from whom he had inherited a small capital. Being firmly convinced of the necessity of preserving his independence, Hermann did not touch his private income, 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 extreme parsimony. He had strong passions and an ardent imagination, but his firmness of disposition preserved him from the ordinary errors of young men. Thus, though a gamester at heart, he never touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow him--as he said--"to risk the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous," yet he would sit for nights together at the card table and follow with feverish anxiety the different 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," he thought to himself the following evening, as he walked along the streets of St. Petersburg, "if the old Countess would but 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--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!... But the story itself: can it really be true?... No! Economy, temperance and industry: those are my three winning cards; by means of them I shall be able to double my capital--increase it sevenfold, and procure for myself ease 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 antiquated architecture. The street was blocked with equipages; carriages one after the other drew up in front of the brilliantly illuminated doorway. At one moment there stepped out on to the pavement the well-shaped little foot of some young beauty, at another the heavy boot of a cavalry officer, and then the silk stockings and shoes of a member of the diplomatic world. Furs and cloaks passed in rapid succession before the gigantic porter at the entrance.
Hermann stopped. "Who's house is this?" he asked of the watchman at the corner.
"The Countess A----'s," replied the watchman.
Hermann started. 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 strange secret. 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 banknotes and heaps of ducats. He played one card after the other, winning uninterruptedly, and then he gathered up the gold and filled his pockets with the notes. When he woke up late the next morning, be sighed over the loss of his imaginary wealth, and then sallying out into the town, he found himself once more in front of the Countess's residence. Some unknown power seemed to have attracted him thither. He stopped and looked up at the windows. At one of these he saw a head with luxuriant black hair, which was bent down probably over some book or an embroidery frame. The head was raised. Hermann saw a fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment decided his fate.
III
Lizaveta Ivanovna had scarcely taken off her hat and cloak, when the Countess sent for her and again ordered her to get the carriage ready. 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 to enter the carriage, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing 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 he had left a letter between her fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during the whole of the 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 signboard?" 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 senses, 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 home 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.
For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy. For the first time in her life she was entering into secret and confidential relations with a young man. His boldness alarmed her. She reproached herself for 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 check upon the young officer's desire for further acquaintance with her? Should she send his letter back to him, or should she answer him in a cold and decided 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 inviting or too cold and decisive. 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 behaviour, but our acquaintance must not begin in such a manner. I return you your letter, and I hope that I shall never have any 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 that the young officer would have the perception to pick it up.
Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired to a confectioner's shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, he found inside it his own letter and Lizaveta's reply. He had expected this, and he returned home, his mind deeply occupied with his intrigue.
Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed 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 recognised Hermann's hand-writing.
"You have made a mistake, my dear," said she: "this letter is not for me."
"Oh, yes, it is for you," replied the girl, smiling very knowingly. "Have the goodness to read it."
Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Hermann requested an interview.
"It cannot be," she cried, alarmed at the audacious request, and the manner in which it was made. "This letter is certainly not for me."
And she tore it into fragments.
"If 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 for the 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 in 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 them 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 Embassy. The Countess will be there. We shall remain until two o'clock. You have now an 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 Swiss, but he usually goes to sleep in his lodge. Come about half-past eleven. Walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody in the ante-room, ask if the Countess is at home. You will be told 'No,' in which case there will be nothing left for you to do but to go away again. But it is most probable that you will meet nobody. The maidservants will all be together in one room. On leaving the ante-room, turn to the left, and walk straight on until you reach the Countess's bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find two doors: the one on the right leads to a cabinet, which the Countess never enters; the one on the left leads to a corridor, at the end of which is a little winding staircase; this leads to my room."
Hermann trembled like a tiger, as he waited for the appointed time to arrive. At ten o'clock in the evening he was already in front of the Countess's house. The weather was terrible; the wind blew with great violence; 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, on the look-out for a belated passenger. Hermann was enveloped in a thick overcoat, and felt neither wind nor snow.
At last the Countess's carriage drew up. Hermann saw two footmen carry out in their arms the bent form of the old lady, wrapped in sable fur, and immediately behind her, clad in a warm mantle, and with her head ornamented with a wreath of fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door was closed. The carriage rolled away heavily through the yielding 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 hastily ascended the staircase, opened the door of the ante-room and saw a footman sitting asleep in an antique chair by the side of a lamp. With a light firm step Hermann passed by him. The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness, but a feeble reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in the ante-room.
Hermann reached the Countess's bedroom. Before a shrine, which was full of old images, a golden lamp was burning. Faded stuffed chairs and divans with soft cushions stood in melancholy symmetry around the room, the walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of the room hung two portraits painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun. One of these represented a stout, red-faced man of about forty years of age in a bright-green uniform and with a star upon his breast; the other--a beautiful young woman, with an aquiline nose, forehead curls and a rose in her powdered hair. In the corners stood porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks from the workshop of the celebrated Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the various playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in vogue at the end of the last century, when Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's magnetism were the rage. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the back of it stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door which led to the cabinet; on the left--the other which led 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 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 chamber-maids 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 favour 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 Chaplitzky, 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 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, and grandchildren will bless your memory and reverence you as a saint..."
The old Countess answered not a word.
Hermann rose to his feet.
"You old hag!" he exclaimed, grinding 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 backwards and remained motionless.
"Come, an end to this childish nonsense!" 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
Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress, lost in deep thought. On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the chambermaid who very reluctantly came forward to assist her, saying that she would undress herself, and with a trembling heart had 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 that he was not there, and she thanked her fate for having prevented him keeping the appointment. 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 first saw the young officer from the window--and yet she was already in correspondence with him, and he had succeeded in inducing her to grant him a nocturnal interview! 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 him spoken of until that evening. But, strange to say, that very evening at the ball, Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess Pauline N----, who, 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. During the whole of the time he kept teasing her about her partiality for Engineer officers; he assured her that he knew far more than she imagined, 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 learnt all this?" she asked, smiling.
"From a friend of a person very well known to you," replied Tomsky, "from a very distinguished man."
"And who is this distinguished man?"
"His name is Hermann."
Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all sense of feeling.
"This Hermann," continued Tomsky, "is a man of romantic personality. 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 have become!"
"I have a headache... But what did this Hermann--or whatever his name is--tell you?"
"Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he says that in his place he would act very differently... I even think that Hermann himself has designs upon you; at least, he listens very attentively to all that his friend has to say about you."
"And where has he seen me?"
"In church, perhaps; or on the parade--God alone knows where. It may have been in your room, while you were asleep, for there is nothing that he--"
Three ladies approaching him with the question: "oubli ou regret?" interrupted the conversation, which had become so tantalisingly interesting to Lizaveta.
The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline herself. She succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him during the numerous turns of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. 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 words were nothing more than the customary small talk of the dance, but they 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 her and fascinating her imagination at the same time. She was now sitting with her bare arms crossed and with her head, still adorned with flowers, sunk upon her uncovered bosom. Suddenly the door opened and Hermann entered. She shuddered.
"Where were you?" she asked in a terrified whisper.
"In the old Countess's bedroom," replied Hermann: "I have just left her. The Countess is dead."
"My God! What do you say?"
"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 desires, this bold obstinate pursuit--all this was not love! Money--that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy his desire and make him, happy I 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.
"You are a monster!" said Lizaveta at last.
"I did not wish for her death," replied Hermann: "my 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 with a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance struck Lizaveta even.
"How shall I get you 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's 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 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 expressed 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 then began to descend the dark staircase, filled with strange emotions. "Down this very staircase," thought he, "perhaps coming from the very same room, and at this very same hour sixty years ago, there may have glided, in an embroidered coat, with his hair dressed a l'oiseau royal and pressing to his heart his three-cornered hat, some young gallant, who has long been mouldering in the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day 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.
V
Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning, Hermann repaired to the Convent of ----, 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: "You are the murderer of the old woman!" In spite of his entertaining very little religious belief, he was exceedingly superstitious; and 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 of people. 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: 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 being out of the world. 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 angel of death found her," said the orator, "engaged in pious meditation and waiting for the midnight bridegroom."
The service concluded amidst profound silence. The relatives went forward first to take farewell of the corpse. Then followed the numerous guests, who had come to render the last homage to her who for so many years had been a participator in their frivolous amusements. After these followed 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 Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of the church. This episode disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the gloomy ceremony. Among the congregation arose a deep murmur, and a tall thin 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 coldly replied: "Oh!"
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 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 his ante-room open. Hermann thought that 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!
"I have come to you against my wish," 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 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 some one 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.
VI
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. "Three, seven, ace," were perpetually running through his head and continually being repeated by 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 threes bloomed before him in the forms of 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 so as to travel abroad. He wanted to go to Paris and tempt fortune in some of the public gambling-houses that abounded there. 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, 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 fascinating manners 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 emotions of faro to the seductions of flirting. 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 the 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 a 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, in order to give the players time to arrange their cards and note down their losses, listened politely to their requests, and more politely still, put straight the corners of cards that some player's hand had chanced to bend. At last the game was finished. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.
"Will you allow me to take a card?" said Hermann, stretching out his hand from behind a stout gentleman who was punting.
Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acquiescence. Narumov laughingly congratulated Hermann on his abjuration of that abstention from cards which he had practised for so long a period, and wished him a lucky beginning.
"Stake!" said Hermann, writing some figures with chalk on the back of his card.
"How much?" asked the banker, contracting the muscles of his eyes; "excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly."
"Forty-seven thousand rubles," replied Hermann.
At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round, and all eyes were fixed upon Hermann.
"He has taken leave of his senses!" thought Narumov.
"Allow me to inform you," said Chekalinsky, with his eternal smile, "that you are playing very high; nobody here has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy-five rubles at once."
"Very well," replied Hermann; "but do you accept my card or not?"
Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent.
"I only wish to observe," said he, "that although I have the greatest confidence in my friends, I can only play against ready money. For my own part, I am quite convinced that your word is sufficient, but for the sake of the order of the game, and to facilitate the reckoning up, I must ask you to put the money on your card."
Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note 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 have won!" 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 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; 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. Every one was expecting him. The generals and Privy Counsellors left their whist in order 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 trembled. On the right a queen turned up, and on the left an ace.
"Ace has won!" cried Hermann, showing his card.
"Your queen has lost," said Chekalinsky, politely.
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...
"The old Countess!" he 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.
"Splendidly punted!" said the players. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards afresh, and the game went on as usual. * * * * *
Hermann went out of his mind, and is now confined in 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 in the service of the State somewhere, and is in receipt of a good income. Lizaveta is also supporting a poor relative.
Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain, and has become the husband of the Princess Pauline.


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他們就幹這種　　
行當。

　　有一天，大伙在近衛騎兵團軍官納魯莫夫家裡打牌。漫長的冬夜不知不覺地過去，到早上四點多鐘他們才坐下吃晚飯。贏錢的人吃起來有滋有味，其餘的人卻坐在那裡，看著面前的空盤子發呆。但是一送上香檳，談話就活躍起來，大伙都參加談話。　　「你怎麼樣啦，蘇林？」主人問。　　「這不是又輸了。應該承認，我賭運不佳。我下注從來不加碼，一向都沉得住氣，什麼情況也不會使我糊塗，可我就是老輸！」　　「你真從來沒有著過迷？從來沒有盯著一張牌加賭注？……你這麼沉得住氣，真叫我驚奇。」　　「瞧人家格爾曼才沉得住氣呢！」一個來客指點一個年輕的工兵軍官說，「他從來沒有摸過牌，從來沒有叫過賭注加倍，可是他總陪我們坐到天亮五點鐘，看著我們打牌！」　　「我對打牌是非常感興趣的，」格爾曼說，「可是我不能為了希望發分外之財而去犧牲我生活必需的錢。」　　「格爾曼是德國人：他很節儉，就是這麼回事！」托姆斯基說。「要是說有什麼人使我不能理解的話，那就是我的祖母安娜.費奧多托夫娜伯爵夫人了。」　　「怎麼？怎麼回事？」客人們都叫起來。　　「我弄不明白，」托姆斯基說，「我的祖母現在怎麼不賭錢了？」　　「一個八十歲的老太太不賭錢，」納魯莫夫說，「這有什麼好奇怪的？」　　「她的事原來你們一點都不知道？」　　「不知道！真的，一點也不知道！」　　「哦，那你們就聽我說吧：　　「要知道，我的祖母六十年前去過巴黎，在那裡出足了風頭。好多人跟在她後面，為了一睹莫斯科的維納斯的芳顏。黎塞留拚命追求她，祖母很肯定地說，為了她的狠心，他差點沒開槍自殺。　　「那時候，女士們都興玩法拉昂 。有一次，她在宮廷裡打牌輸了，欠了奧爾良公爵一大筆錢。祖母回到家裡，揭下臉上的美人痣 ，解下箍骨裙，把輸了錢的事告訴祖父，吩咐他付賬。　　「據我記得，故去的祖父原來是祖母的管家。他怕她像怕火一樣；可是一聽她說輸了這麼一筆巨款，不禁發火了，他拿來賬簿讓她看，半年裡他們花了五十萬，在巴黎，他們可沒有在莫斯科近郊和薩拉托夫鄉下的田產，因此堅決拒絕付賬。祖母給了他一記耳光，自己賭氣睡下，表示對他惱火了。　　「第二天她吩咐把丈夫叫來，以為她的家法對他能起作用，哪知他還是毫不買賬。她生平第一次賞臉給他，同他商量，解釋，打算使他感到慚愧，她跟他說好話，給他打比方，欠債與欠債不相同，王子與馬車匠不一樣。『不行！』祖父造反了。『不行，說什麼也不行！』祖母簡直束手無策了。　　「她有個密友，一個非常有名的人。你們聽說過聖－熱爾曼伯爵吧，大家把他說得神乎其神。你們知道，他自稱是永恆的流浪漢，是長生不老丹和點金術的發明者等等。大家都譏笑他，說他是招搖撞騙，但卡扎諾瓦 在《回憶錄》中卻說他是間諜。聖－熱爾曼雖然是個神秘人物，卻生得儀表堂堂，在社交界非常討人喜愛。祖母至今還愛他愛得神魂顛倒，要是有人以輕蔑的口吻說到他，她就會生氣。祖母知道聖－熱爾曼手裡很有錢。她決定請他幫忙。她寫了個字條給他，請他立即前來。　　「這個老怪物立刻來了，看到她十分痛苦。她用極其惡毒的語言向他描述了丈夫是多麼蠻不講理，最後說，她把全部希望都寄托在他的友情和好意上。　　「聖－熱爾曼想了一想。『這筆錢我可以為您效勞，』他說，『不過我知道，不把這筆錢還我，您是不會安心的，我不願意給您再添麻煩。還有一個辦法：您可以翻本。』　　「『但是，親愛的伯爵，』祖母回答說，『我對您說吧，我們一個錢也沒有了。』『這兒用不著錢，』聖－熱爾曼說，『您聽我把話說完。』於是他就告訴她一個秘密，為了知道這個秘密，我們隨便什麼人都願意付出高昂的代價……」　　年輕的賭客們加倍注意地聽他講。托姆斯基抽起煙斗，深深吸了一口，接著講下去。　　「當天晚上，祖母就來到凡爾賽宮，在皇后那裡打牌。奧爾良公爵坐莊。祖母信口編了個小小的謊言為自己解釋，說沒有把欠的錢帶來，並向他表示歉意。說完就坐在他對面下注。她選了三張牌，一張接一張地出牌；結果三張牌都贏了，祖母把輸掉的錢全部撈回。」　　「這是碰巧！」一個客人說。　　「是瞎編的！」格爾曼說。　　「說不定是做了記號？」第三個人接腔說。　　「我可不這麼想，」托姆斯基傲慢地說。　　「怎麼！」納魯莫夫說，「你祖母能一連猜中三張牌，可你至今還沒有把她的秘訣學到手？」　　「唉，哪有這種好事！」托姆斯基說，「她有四個兒子，包括我父親：個個都是賭起來就不顧一切，可是她沒有向一個兒子公開過自己的秘密，儘管這對他們，甚至對我，都沒有壞處。可是我的伯父伊凡.伊裡奇伯爵千真萬確地對我說過這麼一件事。已故的恰普利茨基，就是那個把百萬家財揮霍乾淨，後來潦倒而死的那個人，年輕時候有一次賭輸了——將近三十萬。他絕望了。祖母對年輕人的胡來一向是非常嚴厲的，這一回不知怎麼竟對恰普利茨基動了憐憫。她告訴他三張牌，叫他一張接一張地出牌，同時要他發誓，從此不再賭錢。恰普利茨基到贏了他錢的人那裡去：他們坐下打牌。恰普利茨基在第一張牌上押了五萬，一下子就贏了，又來個加倍，再翻上一番——他翻了本，還贏了一些……」　　可是該去睡覺了，已經是五點三刻了。　　其實天已經亮了，年輕人喝完杯裡剩下的酒，各自回家。　


　二

「先生好像更喜歡侍女？」
「太太，那有什麼法子呢？她們更嬌艷。」
社交界新聞談

　　老伯爵夫人坐在更衣室的鏡子面前。三個侍女圍繞著她。一個拿著一小盒胭脂，一個拿著一盒發針，還有一個拿著一頂系有火紅色緞帶的高高的包發帽。伯爵夫人的美貌早已消逝，她已經不抱絲毫駐顏的奢望，但她還是保持著年輕時候的一切習慣，嚴格遵照七十年代的式樣，穿著起來還像六十年前花費那麼多時間，還是那麼一絲不苟。坐在窗前繡花的一位小姐是她的養女。　　「您好，祖母，」一個年輕人走了進來，說。「您好，麗莎小姐， 祖母，我有件事來求您。」　　「什麼事，保羅 ？」　　「請容許我給您介紹我的一個朋友，星期五我帶他到舞會上來見您。」　　「你直接帶他到舞會上來找我，就在那裡把他介紹給我。昨天你到那裡去了嗎？」　　「可不是嗎！快活極了，跳舞跳到五點鐘。葉列茨卡婭真美！」　　「啊，我親愛的！她美在哪裡？有她的祖母，達裡婭?彼得羅夫娜公爵夫人那麼美嗎？……哦，我想，達裡婭.彼得羅夫娜公爵夫人已經老得不行了吧？」　　「怎麼，老得不行了？」托姆斯基漫不在意地回答說：「她已經死了七年啦。」　　小姐抬起頭來向年輕人使了個眼色。他想起來了，他們對老伯爵夫人是瞞著她的同年女友的死訊的，便咬住了嘴唇。但是伯爵夫人聽到這對她是新聞的消息，竟絲毫無動於衷。　　「她死啦！」她說，「可我根本不知道！我們一同被賜做宮中女官，我們去覲見皇后的時候，皇后……」　　伯爵夫人的這個故事，對孫子已經講了上百遍了。　　「好吧，保羅，」後來她說，「現在扶我站起來。麗贊卡，我的鼻煙壺呢？」　　伯爵夫人帶著侍女們到屏風後面去繼續妝扮。托姆斯基和小姐留下。　　「您要介紹的是什麼人？」麗莎白悄悄地問。　　「納魯莫夫。您認識他？」　　「不認識！他是軍官還是文官？」　　「是軍官。」　　「是工兵軍官？」　　「不！是騎兵。您為什麼以為他是工兵軍官？」　　小姐笑了起來，沒有作答。　　「保羅！」伯爵夫人在屏風後面叫起來，「給我弄一本新小說來，不過，請不要眼下流行的。」　　「這是什麼意思，祖母？」　　「就是說，不要有主人公掐死父母，不要裡面有淹死的屍體的那種小說。我非常害怕淹死的人！」　　「如今沒有那種小說了。您要不要俄國小說？」　　「難道有俄國小說？……那就拿來吧，少爺，請拿來吧。」　　「再見，祖母。我要趕快走了……再見，麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜！您到底為什麼會以為納魯莫夫是工兵軍官呢？」　　托姆斯基說了就走出了更衣室。　　剩下麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜一個人。她放下刺繡，開始瞧著窗外。不多一會，在大街對面從拐角的屋子後面走出一個青年軍官。她的兩頰泛起了紅暈，她又做起活計，頭幾乎低到繡布上。這時伯爵夫人已經穿戴完畢，走了進來。　　「麗贊卡，你去關照套馬車，」她說，「我們出去遛遛。」　　麗贊卡從繡架旁站起來，開始收拾活計。　　「你怎麼啦，我的媽！你聾了嗎！」伯爵夫人叫起來。「你快去叫他們套車呀。」　　「我這就去！」小姐輕聲回答，就跑到前室去。　　一個僕人進來，把帕維爾.亞歷山德羅維奇 送來的書呈給伯爵夫人。　　「好！謝謝，」伯爵夫人說。「麗贊卡，麗贊卡，你跑到哪兒去啦？」　　「在穿衣服吶。」　　「別忙，我的媽。坐在這兒。打開第一卷，念給我聽……」　　小姐拿起書來，念了幾行。　　「大聲點！」伯爵夫人說，「你怎麼啦，我的媽！嗓子啞啦？……等等，把擱腳凳給我挪過來，再近些……好，念吧！」　　麗莎白?伊凡諾夫娜又念了兩頁。伯爵夫人打了個哈欠。　　「把這本書扔掉，」她說，「簡直是胡說八道！把它還給帕維爾公爵，說我謝謝他……馬車怎麼樣啦？」　　「馬車預備好了，」麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜朝街上看了一眼，說。　　「你怎麼還沒有穿好衣服？」伯爵夫人說，「老要別人等你！我的媽，這真叫人受不了。」　　麗莎白跑到自己的房間裡去。還沒有過兩分鐘，伯爵夫人就拚命地搖鈴。三個侍女從一扇門裡跑進來，男侍從另一扇門裡跑進來。　　「叫你們怎麼沒有人答應？」伯爵夫人對他們說，「去告訴麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜，說我在等她。」　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜穿著長衣、戴著帽子走進來。　　「總算來了，我的媽！」伯爵夫人說。「這算什麼打扮！為了什麼？想去勾引誰？……天氣怎麼樣？好像有風。」　　「一點也沒有，夫人！天氣好極了！」男僕回答說。　　「你們總是信口瞎說！打開氣窗。果然有風！而且冷得要命！把車卸下！麗贊卡，我們不去了，不用打扮了。」　　「這就是我的生活！」麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜心裡想。　　的確，麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜是個最最不幸的人。但丁說過，別人的麵包苦，別人的台階難攀登。有誰能像貴婦人的苦命的養女那樣，知道寄人籬下的辛酸呢？當然伯爵夫人心腸並不壞，但是她像在上流社會中被人捧壞的女人那樣任性，也像所有既不再留意逝去的年華而對現代社會又格格不入的老年人那樣吝嗇，冷漠，一心只顧自己。上流社會一切無謂的應酬，她無不參加。她出席舞會，塗脂抹粉，穿著式樣古老的服裝坐在角落裡，像是舞廳裡一件醜陋而又必不可少的點綴品。來的客人都走到她跟前深深鞠躬，好像履行一個規定的儀式，以後就誰也不去理睬她了。她在家裡招待全城上流社會的人士，嚴格遵照禮節，但是她一個人也認不出。她有一大群僕從，他們在她的前室裡和下房裡養得胖胖的，頭髮變白，他們想幹什麼，就幹什麼，爭先恐後地偷竊這個垂死的老太太的東西。麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜是家裡的受氣包。斟茶的時候她因為多放了糖要挨數落，朗讀小說時凡是作者的錯誤都要怪她；她陪伴伯爵夫人外出，遇上天氣不好或道路不好走，也要她負責。她有規定的薪金，卻從來沒有付足過，然而卻要求她穿戴得像所有的人一樣，也就是像極少數人能夠穿得起的那樣。在交際場中她的處境是極為可憐的。人人都認識她，但是沒有人注意她。在舞會上，只有舞伴不夠的時候才輪得到她跳舞。太太們需要去更衣室整理一下服飾的時候總要挽著她同去。她自尊心強，痛切感到自己地位的低下，她觀察著周圍，迫切等待一位救星。但是年輕人的輕浮的虛榮心使他們非常精明，對她不屑一顧，儘管麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜比起他們涎皮賴臉纏住不放的厚顏而又冷冰冰的姑娘來，要可愛一百倍。多少次，她離開富麗堂皇而乏味的客廳，回到自己的簡陋的房間裡去暗自流淚。她的房間裡擺著一架糊花紙的屏風、一個五斗櫃，一面小鏡子和一張油漆過的床，銅燭台上點著一支黯淡的油蠟。　　有一次，——這是在這篇小說的開頭描述的那天晚上以後兩天，在我們談到的那個場面的一個星期以前——有一次，麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜坐在窗前刺繡，無意中朝街上看了一眼，看見一個年輕的工兵軍官一動不動地站在那裡，眼睛盯著她的窗子。她又低下頭來做活計，五分鐘後又望了望——年輕的工兵軍官還站在那裡。她沒有和過路的軍官眉目傳情的習慣，便不再去看，頭也不抬地繡了將近兩個小時。開午飯了。她站起來收拾繡架，無意中又朝街上一望，又看見了那個軍官。她覺得這事很叫人納悶。吃完午飯，她懷著一種不安的心情走到窗前，可是軍官已經不在——她也就把他忘了……　　大約過了兩天，她陪伯爵夫人出去上馬車的時候，又看到他。他就站在大門口，用海龍皮大衣領遮著臉：他的烏黑的眼睛在帽子下面發亮。麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜吃了一驚，自己也說不出是為了什麼。她坐上馬車，心裡說不出地忐忑不安。　　回到家裡，她連忙跑到窗口——軍官還站在老地方，眼睛盯著她。她走開了，好奇心使她苦惱，一種她從未體驗過的感情又使她激動。　　從那時起，每天到了一定的鐘點，那個年輕人一定出現在她們家的窗下。在他和她之間建立了一種默契。她坐在座位上刺繡，就感到他在近旁——便抬起頭來看他，注視他的時間逐日加長。那年輕人似乎為此感激她：她以青春時期的敏銳的目光看出來，每逢他們的目光相遇時，他的蒼白的面頰很快就遮上紅暈。過了一個星期，她對他微笑了一下……　　當托姆斯基請求伯爵夫人允許他把自己的朋友介紹給她的時候，可憐的姑娘的心怦然跳起來了。但是一聽說納魯莫夫並不是工兵軍官而是騎兵，她不禁後悔不該一時大意問了一句，向輕浮的托姆斯基洩露了自己的秘密。　　格爾曼是一個俄國化的德國人的兒子，父親留給他一小筆資產。格爾曼堅信必須確保生活自立，對遺產的利息都不動用，單靠薪俸生活，不讓自己有絲毫的放縱。但是，他性格內向，愛面子，同伴們不容易有機會取笑他的過分的節儉。他有著強烈的慾望和熱烈的幻想，但是堅強的毅力使他避免了青年人通常易犯的錯誤。比方說，他生性愛賭，卻從沒有摸過牌，因為他考慮到，他的財產不容許他(照他的說法，為了希望發分外之財而去犧牲我必需的錢)，然而，他卻整宵整宵地坐在牌桌旁邊，懷著狂熱的戰慄的心情注視著牌局輸贏的變化。　　三張牌的故事對他的想像力起了強烈的影響，整夜盤踞在他的腦際。「要是，」第二天傍晚，他漫步彼得堡街頭時想道，「要是老伯爵夫人向我公開她的秘密！或是向我指出這三張穩能贏錢的牌，那就好啦！我何不去試試我的運氣呢？……去向她自我介紹，取得她的寵愛，或是做她的情夫——但是這一切都需要時間，可是她已經八十七了——說不定過一個星期，說不定再過兩天，她就會死去！……可是這個故事本身呢？……它可信嗎？……不，節儉、克制和勤勞：這才是我的三張必勝的牌，它才能使我的資產增加兩倍、六倍，使我得到安寧和獨立的生活！」　　他這樣盤算著，不覺來到彼得堡一條主要大街上一座古老建築的宅子面前。街上擠滿了馬車，一輛接一輛地向這個燈光輝煌的大門口駛去。從這些馬車裡時而伸出年輕美人的纖足，時而伸出咚咚作響的長靴，時而又是帶條紋的長襪和外交官的皮鞋。皮大衣和斗篷在威風凜凜的司閽身邊閃過。格爾曼站了下來。　　「這是誰家的公館？」他問牆角邊的一個崗警。　　「伯爵夫人的。」崗警回答說。　　格爾曼戰慄起來。那個奇異的故事又在他的想像中浮現。他在房子旁邊走來走去，心裡想著房子的女主人和她那奇妙的本領。他很晚才回到他那簡陋的小屋裡，久久不能成寐，等他被睡魔征服之後，他就夢見了紙牌、綠呢牌桌、一疊疊的鈔票和一堆堆的金幣。他一張接一張地出牌，堅決地折角，不斷地贏錢，把金幣摟到自己面前，把鈔票放進口袋。早晨他很晚才醒來。因為失去了夢幻中的財富歎了口氣，又去城裡閒逛，又來到伯爵夫人的府邸前面。彷彿有一種神秘的力量把他吸引到這裡來。一個滿頭黑髮的小腦袋低垂著，大概是在看書或是做活計。那個小腦袋抬起來了。格爾曼看見了一張嬌艷的小臉和一雙烏黑的眼睛。這一刻決定了他的命運。

　　
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比我讀起來還快。
　　
書信

　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜剛把長衣和帽子脫掉，伯爵夫人已經差人來喚她，又吩咐套車。她們出來上車。就在兩個僕人攙扶著老夫人，把她塞進車門的當兒，麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜在車輪旁邊看到了工兵軍官。他一把抓住她的手，把她嚇呆了，年輕人不見了：在她手裡留下一封信。她把信藏進手套裡，一路上什麼也聽不見，看不見了。伯爵夫人有個習慣，坐上馬車老愛問這問那：她們遇到的是什麼人？這座橋叫什麼？那邊招牌上寫的什麼？麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜這一回總是信口回答，答非所問，把伯爵夫人惹惱了。　　「你是怎麼回事，我的媽！你發昏了嗎？我的話你是沒有聽見呢，還是聽不懂？……感謝上帝，我說話並不是口齒不清，也沒有老糊塗！」　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜沒有聽見她說什麼。回到家裡，她急忙跑到自己的房間裡，從手套裡取出那封信。信沒有封口。麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜把它讀了。這是一封表白愛情的信，充滿柔情和敬意，逐字逐句都是從一本德國小說上抄來的。可是麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜因為不懂德語，所以讀了非常滿意。　　然而她接到的這封信卻使她心慌意亂。她是第一次和一個青年男子有了秘密而密切的關係。他的大膽使她吃驚。她責備自己行為不檢點，不知如何是好：是不是不要再坐在窗口，冷淡地，給這個年輕軍官潑些冷水，免得他作進一步的追求；要不要把信退給他？——冷淡而堅決地回絕他？她沒有人可以商量，她既沒有女友，又沒有人可以請教。麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜決定給他覆信。　　她在寫字桌前坐下，拿起紙和筆沉思起來。她幾次動筆開了個頭，又撕了：她覺得不是用詞太客氣就是太冷酷。她終於寫了幾行，覺得還算滿意。「我相信，」她寫道，「您是真心誠意的，您並不想用輕率的舉動來侮辱我。但是我們的相識不應該以這樣的方式開始。現將尊函退還，希望今後不至讓我抱怨說我受到不應得的不尊重。」　　第二天，麗莎白?伊凡諾夫娜看見格爾曼走過來，就從繡架旁站起來，走到大廳裡，打開氣窗，把信扔到街上，希望青年軍官能迅速地拾起來。格爾曼跑過來，拾起了信，便走進一家糖果鋪。他撕開火漆印，看到自己的信和麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜的覆信。這是在他的意料之中的，他回到家裡，專心致意地策劃起來。　　三天之後，時裝店的一個眼睛靈活的年輕姑娘給麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜送來一張字條。麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜以為是來要賬的，擔心地打開字條，忽然認出是格爾曼的筆跡。　　「親愛的，您弄錯了，」她說，「這張字條不是給我的。」　　「不，正是給您的！」大膽的姑娘回答說，並不掩飾臉上狡黠的微笑。「請您看吧！」　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜匆匆看了字條。格爾曼要求會晤。　　「不可能！」麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜說，他的緊迫的要求和他採用的方法都叫她害怕。「這肯定不是寫給我的！」說著就把信撕得粉碎。　　「既然信不是寫給您的，您怎麼把它撕了呢？」那個姑娘說，「我可以把它退還給寄信的人啊！」　　「請您，親愛的！」麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜被她點破，臉漲得緋紅。「以後別再送字條給我。您對托您帶信的人說，他應該感到慚愧……」　　但是格爾曼並沒有就此罷休。麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜每天收到他用各種方法送來的信。這些信已經不是從德國小說翻譯過來的。激情給了他靈感，格爾曼用自己特有的語言寫了這些信，信中表達了他的百折不撓的願望和他的不受羈絆的幻想，麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜已經不想把它們退回：這些信使她陶醉。她開始給他覆信，而且信越寫越長，越來越充滿柔情蜜意。最後，她從窗口扔給他下面這封信：
今天公使舉行舞會。伯爵夫人將去參加。我們大約要待到兩點鐘。這樣，您就有機會和我單獨會晤了。伯爵夫人一出門，僕人一定會散去，門廳裡留一個看門的，不過他一般也回到自己的小屋裡去。您十一點半來，直接上樓梯。要是您在前廳裡遇到人，您就問伯爵夫人在不在家。要是告訴您她不在，那就沒有辦法，您只好回去了。不過您大概不會遇到人。侍女們都待在一個房間裡。從前廳一直往左走，就走到伯爵夫人的臥室。在臥室裡的屏風後面，您會看見兩扇小門：右邊的通書房，伯爵夫人從來不到那裡；左邊的通過道，那邊有一條狹窄的螺旋形樓梯：它通到我的房間。
格爾曼像老虎似的渾身顫動，等待著約定的時間。才晚上十點鐘，他已經站在伯爵夫人府邸前面。天氣十分惡劣，朔風怒號，飄著鵝毛似的濕雪，路燈昏暗，街上闃無一人。偶爾有一個車伕趕著瘦瘠的駑馬慢慢地走過，看看有沒有遲歸的乘客。格爾曼身上只穿一件常禮服站在那裡，對於風雪毫無感覺。伯爵夫人的馬車終於準備好了。格爾曼看見兩個侍僕扶出一個裹著貂皮大衣的駝背的老太太，她的養女身穿單薄的斗篷，頭戴鮮花，跟在她後面一閃而過。車門砰地關上了。馬車在鬆軟的雪地上費力地駛過去。看門人關上大門。窗內的燈光暗了。格爾曼開始在冷落下來的房子周圍徘徊，他走到路燈前，一看表，是十一點二十分。他站在路燈下，眼睛盯著表上的指針，等待剩下的幾分鐘過去。十一點半整，格爾曼走上伯爵夫人府邸的台階，走進燈光通明的門廳。看門人不在。格爾曼跑上樓梯，打開通前廳的門，看見一個僕人坐在燈光下古老而骯髒的手圈椅裡打盹。格爾曼跨著堅定的步子輕輕地從他身旁走過。大廳裡和客廳裡都沒有燈。前廳裡微弱的燈光射到這裡。格爾曼走進臥室。在擺滿古色古香聖像的神龕前，點著一盞金色的小燈。靠糊著中國壁紙的牆邊，對稱地擺著褪色的花緞手圈椅和鍍金剝落、放著羽絨靠墊的沙發，牆上懸掛著兩幅在巴黎由勒勃倫畫的肖像。一張畫的是一個面色紅潤、胖胖的四十來歲的男子，身穿淺綠色制服，佩著星章，另一張畫的是一個年輕美人，生著鷹鉤鼻子，兩鬢的頭髮朝後梳，撲了粉的頭髮上戴一朵玫瑰。每個牆角里都擺滿瓷器的牧女，著名的勒魯阿製造的檯鐘、小盒子、輪盤、扇子以及十八世紀末與蒙哥爾菲埃氣球和梅斯梅爾催眠術同時發明的形形色色的婦女玩的小擺設。格爾曼走到屏風後面。屏風後面放著一張小鐵床。右面有一扇門通書房，左面的另一扇門通過道。格爾曼把門打開，看見一個狹窄的螺旋梯，這是通到可憐的養女的房間去的……但是他扭身走進了黑暗的書房。 　　時間過得很慢。一切都是靜悄悄的。客廳裡的鍾打十二下，各個房間裡也相繼敲了十二點——後來一切重又沉寂下米。格爾曼靠著一隻沒有生火的爐子站著。他很鎮靜，他的心臟跳得很均勻，好像是一個決心去幹一件危險然而是必須去做的事情的人那樣。鍾打了一點，又打了兩點，——他聽到遠遠的馬車聲。一陣不由自主的激動攫住了他。馬車漸漸駛近，停下了。他聽見放下腳踏板的聲音，屋子裡忙碌起來。人們奔跑著，大聲說話，屋子裡亮起來。三個年老的女僕跑進臥室，伯爵夫人半死不活地走進來，癱坐在高背手圈椅裡。格爾曼從縫隙裡看見麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜從他身旁走過。格爾曼聽見她急促地走上樓梯。他心裡似乎感到一陣良心譴責，但是又平靜下來。他已經橫了心。　　伯爵夫人開始對鏡卸妝。女侍給她取下插著玫瑰花的帽子，從她那白髮剪得短短的頭上取下撲了粉的假髮。發針像雨點似的落在她的身旁。用銀線繡的黃色長衣褪落在她的浮腫的腳旁。格爾曼親眼看到了她那令人作嘔的化妝的秘密，最後伯爵夫人只穿著睡衣，戴著睡帽。這身打扮對她的年齡倒比較合適，看上去她就不顯得那麼可怕和難看了。　　像所有上了年紀的人那樣，伯爵夫人也患失眠。她脫了衣服，坐在窗口的高背手圈椅裡，把女僕都打發走了。蠟燭拿走了，房間裡又只剩下一盞小燈。伯爵夫人坐在那裡，臉色蠟黃，松垂的嘴唇翕動著，身子左右搖晃。她的渾濁的眼睛表現出腦子裡什麼都不想。望著她，你會以為這個可怕的老太婆這樣晃動並不是出於她的本意，而是由於身體內部電流的作用。　　突然，這張毫無生氣的臉起了無法形容的變化。嘴唇停止翕動，眼睛有了精神：在伯爵夫人面前站著一個陌生男人。　　「請別害怕，看上帝的分上，別害怕！」他清晰地低聲說。「我無意傷害您，我是來懇求您做一件好事的。」　　老婦人默默地望著他，似乎沒有聽見他的話。格爾曼以為她是個聾子，便俯身湊在她的耳邊，把同樣的話重說了一遍。老婦人還是不作聲。　　「您能夠，」格爾曼接著說，「使我生活幸福，這在您一點不費什麼：我知道，您可以接連猜中三張牌……」　　格爾曼住口了。伯爵夫人似乎明白了對她的要求，她似乎在斟酌怎樣回答。　　「這是開玩笑，」她終於說，「我對您發誓！這是開玩笑！」　　「這沒有什麼玩笑好開，」格爾曼氣憤地說。「您回憶一下恰普利茨基吧，是您幫他翻的本。」　　伯爵夫人顯然被窘住了。她的臉上反映出強烈的內心活動，但是她很快又陷入了原來的麻痺狀態。　　「您能不能，」格爾曼接著說，「給我指出這三張穩贏的牌？」　　伯爵夫人不做聲。格爾曼接著說：　　「您是為誰保守您的秘密呢？為您的孫子嗎？他們不用知道這個秘密也很有錢：他們根本不知道金錢的價值。您的三張牌幫不了敗家子的忙。一個人要是不會珍惜上輩留下的財產，哪怕他作出天大的努力，他終歸要死於貧困。我不是敗家子，我知道金錢來之不易。您的三張牌對我不會是白費的。您說吧！……」　　他住了嘴，惴惴不安地等待她的回答。伯爵夫人沒有做聲，格爾曼下跪了。　　「假如您的心曾懂得過愛的感情，」他說，「假如您記得愛的狂喜，假如您哪怕只有一次在聽到新生兒子啼哭時微笑過一下，假如有某種人類的感情曾在您的胸中跳動過，那我就用妻子、情人，母親——以生活中一切最神聖的感情來懇求您，不要拒絕我的請求！向我公開您的秘密吧！您要它有什麼用呢？……也許，它會造成駭人的罪惡，使人喪失終生的幸福，使人去和魔鬼簽訂協定……您想一想吧：您老了，您活不長了，——我情願讓我的靈魂來承擔您的罪過。只要您把您的秘密告訴我。您想一想吧，一個人的幸福就掌握在您手裡，不單是我，連我的孩子，我的孫子、曾孫都會對您的恩德感激不盡，對待您的恩賜像對待聖物一樣……」　　老婦人一個字也沒有回答。　　格爾曼站了起來。　　「老妖婆！」他咬牙切齒地說，「我只好強迫你回答了……」　　他說著就從衣袋裡拔出手槍。　　伯爵夫人一見手槍，又一次流露出強烈的激動。她搖著頭，舉起一隻手好像要擋住槍彈……隨後就向後倒了下去……一動也不動了。　　「別來這一套，」格爾曼抓住她的手，說，「我最後一次問您：您願不願意告訴我您的三張牌——願意還是不願意？」　　伯爵夫人沒有回答。格爾曼一看，她已經死了


四
　
18＊＊年5月7日　　
一個絲毫沒有道德準則和信仰的人。　　
通信


　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜坐在自己的房間裡，身上還穿著參加舞會的服裝，就陷入深深的沉思。她回到家後，趕緊把睡眼惺忪，不樂意服侍她的使女打發走，說可以自己脫衣服，然後膽戰心驚地走進自己的房間，既希望在那裡看到格爾曼，又希望不要看到他。她一眼就證實他並沒有來，不禁感謝命運阻撓他們會面。她坐下來衣服也不脫，開始回憶在這麼短暫的時間裡竟使她迷戀得這麼深的種種情況。從她第一次在窗口看見這個年輕人算起還不到三個星期，她居然已經跟人家書信往來，並且同意了他和她夜間約會的要求！她只是從他的幾封簽了名的來信上知道他的姓名，她從來沒有跟他說過話，沒有聽見過他的聲音，在這天晚上以前，從來沒有聽說過有關他的情況……真是怪事！就在這天晚間的舞會上，托姆斯基嫌年輕的公爵小姐波利娜不像平日那樣跟他調情，存心要氣氣她，對她表示冷淡，就邀請麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜和他跳那沒完沒了的瑪祖卡舞。他老是取笑她對工兵軍官的偏愛，說他知道的事要比她能夠想像的多得多，他的玩笑有幾句說得那麼擊中要害，使麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜不禁幾次暗忖，他一定知道了她的秘密。　　「這些事您是從哪裡聽來的？」她笑著問。　　「聽您認識的某某人說的，」托姆斯基回答說，「他是一個非常出色的人！」　　「這個非常出色的人到底是誰？」　　「他叫格爾曼。」　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜什麼也沒有回答，但是她的手腳卻變得冰冷了……　　「這個格爾曼，」托姆斯基接著說，「有一張真正的小說中人物的面貌：他的側面像拿破侖，靈魂像靡非斯特 。我想，起碼有三件罪惡壓在他的良心上。您的臉色多麼蒼白！……」　　「我頭痛……格爾曼對您說什麼來著，——他叫什麼名字呀？……」　　「格爾曼很不滿意他的朋友：他說，換了他，他一定不那麼做……我甚至覺得格爾曼自己在轉您的念頭，至少他非常歡喜聽他的朋友對您的充滿愛慕的讚歎……」　　「他是在哪裡看見過我的？」　　「在教堂裡，也許在您散步的時候！……天曉得！說不定是在您的房間，在您睡覺的時候：他是幹得出的……」　　三位女士向他們走來，問「忘卻還是惋惜？」打斷了把麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜弄得心癢難熬的談話。　　被托姆斯基選中的舞伴就是公爵小姐本人。她和他多跳了一圈，又在自己的椅子面前多繞了一圈，趁此和他解釋誤會。托姆斯基回到座位上，已經把格爾曼和麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜都忘掉了。麗莎一心要想恢復被打斷的談話，但是瑪祖卡結束了，老伯爵夫人很快就離去了。　　托姆斯基的話不過是在跳瑪祖卡時隨便說說而已，但是這些話卻深深銘印在好幻想的少女心裡。托姆斯基勾畫的肖像竟和她心中所想像的不謀而合，由於讀了流行小說，這張已經顯得平常的臉竟使她又是害怕，又是著迷。她交叉著裸露的雙臂坐著，仍舊戴著鮮花的頭低垂在袒露的胸前……突然，門打開了，格爾曼走了進來。她戰慄起來……　　「您到哪裡去了？」她吃驚地低聲問。　　「在老伯爵夫人的臥室裡，」格爾曼回答說，「我剛從她那兒來。伯爵夫人死了。」　　「我的天！……您說什麼？……」　　「而且，好像我是她致死的原因。」格爾曼接下去說。　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜瞅了他一眼，她心裡響起了托姆斯基的話：起碼有三件罪惡壓在這個人的良心上！格爾曼坐在靠近她的窗台上，講了全部的經過。　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜膽戰心驚地聽完了他的話。原來，那些充滿熱情的信，那些火樣熱烈的要求，那些大膽執著的追求，這一切都不是愛情！金錢——這才是他的靈魂所如饑似渴地追求的！能夠滿足他的欲壑，能使他得到幸福的不是她！可憐的養女竟成了殺害她的女恩人的兇手和強盜的盲目的幫兇！……她後悔莫及，痛哭起來。格爾曼默默地看著她：他心裡也很痛苦，但是不論這個可憐少女的眼淚，還是她那楚楚可憐的傷心模樣，都打動不了他那冷酷的靈魂。想到死去的老婦人他並不感到良心的譴責。他怕的只是一件事：他指望著賴以發財的秘密失去了，再也找不回來了。　　「您是個魔鬼！」麗莎白.伊幾諾夫娜終於說。　　「我並沒有想弄死她，」格爾曼回答說，「我的手槍裡沒有裝子彈。」　　他們都沉默了。　　早晨來臨，麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜吹滅殘燭：慘白的晨曦照亮了她的房間。她擦乾眼淚，抬起眼來望著格爾曼：他坐在窗台上，雙手交叉，凶狠地皺著眉頭。這個姿勢使他和拿破侖的肖像像得出奇。這樣的酷似甚至使麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜吃驚。　　「您怎麼從這裡出去呢？」麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜終於說。「我本來想領您走秘密樓梯，可是這要經過伯爵夫人的臥室，我害怕。」　　「請告訴我怎樣找到這個秘密樓梯。我能出去。」　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜站起來，從五斗櫃裡取出一把鑰匙交給格爾曼，並且詳詳細細地告訴他怎麼走。格爾曼握住她的冰冷的、沒有反應的手，吻了吻她的低垂的頭，就走出去了。　　他走下螺旋樓梯，又走進伯爵夫人的臥室。死去的老婦人坐在那裡僵硬了，神態十分安詳。格爾曼在她面前站住，久久地望著她，似乎要證實這件可怕的事是真的。最後他走進書房，摸到糊牆紙後面的門，就順著黑樓梯走下去，心中思緒萬千。他想，也許在六十年前，有一個年輕的幸運兒，身穿繡金長衣，梳著仙鶴式的髮式，把三角帽按在胸口，就在這個時刻，就順著這座樓梯悄悄地溜進這間臥室。這個幸運兒早已長眠地下，而他那老邁的情婦的心臟今天才停止跳動……　　格爾曼在樓梯下面找到一扇門，用那把鑰匙開了門，穿過一條過道，到了大街上。　


五


這天夜晚，已故的馮巴羅尼斯男爵夫人在我面前出現。
她穿一身白衣服，對我說：「您好，顧問先生。」　　
施維登博格

　　在出事的夜晚之後三天，早上九點鐘，格爾曼動身去修道院，在那裡要為已故伯爵夫人的遺體舉行安魂祈禱。儘管他毫無後悔之意，卻不能完全壓下良心的譴責，它反覆對他說：你是殺害老婦人的兇手！他雖沒有多少真誠的信仰，迷信卻不少。他相信，死去的伯爵夫人會給他的一生帶來災禍，因此決意去參加她的葬禮，祈求她饒恕他。　　教堂裡擠滿了人。格爾曼好不容易從人群中擠過去。靈柩停放在豪華的靈台上，上面覆蓋著天鵝絨棺罩。死者躺在棺材裡，雙手疊放在胸前，頭戴釘花邊的帽子，身穿白緞長衣。四周站著家僕：僕人們身穿肩上有紋章緞帶的黑袍，手捧蠟燭，兒孫和重孫等親屬都身穿重孝。沒有人哭泣，流淚會顯得虛情假意。伯爵夫人已經是風燭殘年，對她的死誰也不會吃驚，她的親屬早已把她看作是老不死。一位年輕的主教致悼詞。他用簡短動人的話闡說了這個有德行的老太太的安寧的死，多少年來她默默地、非常令人感動地修身養性，迎來了一個基督徒的死亡。「司死亡的天使把這個一心想著行善、等待基督降臨的信徒接走了。」演講人說。儀式結束了，悲傷而又合乎禮節。親屬先上前向遺體告別。隨後是許多來賓，他們前來向長期參加他們的無聊玩樂的老太太行禮。他們之後是全體僕人。最後走上前來的是一位年老的貴婦人，死者的同齡人。兩個年輕侍女攙扶著她。她已經不能深深下跪，——她吻了吻夫人的冰冷的手，獨自灑了幾滴老淚。她走後，格爾曼決定走到靈柩跟前。他跪下來，在灑滿杉樹枝的冰冷的地上伏了好一會。最後他站了起來，臉色跟死者一樣蒼白，他走上靈台的台階，又鞠了一躬……這時他覺得死者一隻眼瞇起，帶著嘲笑瞅了他一眼。格爾曼急忙後退，不小心踩空了，咚的一聲仰臉摔倒在地上。人們把他扶起來。在同一時刻，麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜昏倒了，被扶到教堂門外的台階上。這個插曲把肅穆的喪禮擾亂了幾分鐘。來賓中發出一陣低聲的議論，一個瘦削的宮中高級侍從官，死者的近親，湊著他身邊的一個英國人的耳朵說，這個年輕人是她的私生子，英國人聽了冷冷地回答說：哦！　　格爾曼一整天都情緒極為惡劣。他在一家僻靜的小飯館裡吃午飯時，一反自己的習慣，喝了好多酒，希望以此壓下內心的不安。但是酒力反而使他格外煩躁。他回到家裡，衣服也不脫，倒在床上就呼呼大睡了。　　他醒來已經是半夜：月光照亮他的房間。他看了看表：兩點三刻。睡意消失了，他坐在床上，想起了老伯爵夫人的葬禮。　　這時街上有人朝他的窗口張望了一下，立刻走開了。格爾曼一點沒有理會。過了一會，他聽見有人打開前室的門。格爾曼以為是他的勤務兵照例喝得醉醺醺的，夜遊回來了，但是他聽到的是陌生的腳步聲：有人在走路，便鞋發出輕輕的聲音。門打開了，走進來一個穿白衣服的女人。格爾曼以為是自己的老奶娘，正在奇怪她怎麼會深更半夜前來。但是白衣婦人飄然就到了他面前——格爾曼認出了原來是伯爵夫人！　　「我來找你不是出於本意，」她用堅定的聲音說，「但是我奉命來滿足你的請求。三點、七點和Ace可以使你連續贏錢——不過有一個條件，你在一晝夜之內只能押一張牌，不能多，事後一輩子再也不賭。你把我嚇死，我可以饒恕你，條件是你要娶我的養女麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜……」　　說完她悄悄地轉過身去，便鞋發出沙沙的聲音向門口走去，消失了。格爾曼聽見前廳的門砰的一響，又看見有人在窗口朝他望了一望。　　格爾曼好半天不能清醒過來。他走到另一個房間裡。他的勤務兵睡在地上。格爾曼好不容易把他叫醒。勤務兵照例是喝得酩酊大醉：從他嘴裡根本問不出個究竟來。前廳的門鎖著。格爾曼回到房間裡，點起蠟燭，把自己看到的事記下來。　　


六

「等一等再分牌！」　　
「您竟敢對我說等一等分牌？」　　
「大人，我是說了，等一等再分牌！」　　

兩個固定的念頭不能共存在一個人的精神世界裡，如同兩個物體在物質世界裡不能共佔同一個空間一樣。三點、七點、Ace——很快就掩蓋了格爾曼頭腦裡的死去老婦人的形象。三點、七點、Ace—— 一直盤踞在他頭腦裡，還在他嘴裡念叨著。看見一個年輕姑娘，他就說：「她多麼苗條！……真像紅心三點一樣。」有人問他：「現在幾點鐘？」他就回答：「缺五分七點。」看見一個大肚皮的男人，他就想起Ace。三點、七點、Ace——在夢中也跟蹤他，化做形形色色的形狀：三點像一朵盛開的石榴花在他面前怒放，七點像是一座哥特式的大門，Ace是一個其大無比的蜘蛛。他心心唸唸只想著怎樣來利用他用高昂的代價得來的這個秘密。他開始想到退職和旅行。他打算去巴黎公開的賭場，讓中了魔的命運女神拿出寶藏。恰巧有一個機會使他省去了這些麻煩。　　莫斯科成立了一個闊佬賭客的總會，主持人是赫赫有名的切卡林斯基，他賭了一輩子，曾發過幾百萬的大財。他贏了可以收期票，輸了卻付現款。相處的日子久了，賭友們都信任他。他的好客、他的手藝高明的廚師，他的親切的態度和快樂更使他博得公眾的尊敬。他來到了彼得堡。青年們蜂擁而來，為了打牌而忘了舞會：為了法拉昂的誘惑，寧肯犧牲追逐女性的樂趣。納魯莫夫把格爾曼帶去見他。　　他們走過一排豪華的房間，裡面站滿了彬彬有禮的侍僕。有幾位將軍和三級文官在打惠斯特 ，一些年輕人懶洋洋地坐在花緞沙發上吃著冰淇凌，抽著煙斗。客廳裡有二十來個賭客圍著一張長桌坐著，主人坐在桌後坐莊。主人大約六十來歲，外表令人肅然起敬，滿頭銀髮，豐滿的臉容光煥發，顯得非常善良，雙目有神，永遠帶著笑意。納魯莫夫把格爾曼介紹給他。切卡林斯基親切地和他握手，請他不必客氣，隨後又繼續分牌。　　這一局打了很久。牌桌上有三十多張牌。切卡林斯基每分完一次牌都要停下來記下輸掉的錢，讓賭客有時間考慮，同時很有禮貌地聽取他們的要求，更為有禮貌地弄平心不在焉的賭客多折的牌角。一局終於完了。切卡林斯基洗了牌，準備再次分牌。　　「請讓我押一張牌，」格爾曼從一個在那裡賭錢的胖紳士背後伸過手來，說。切卡林斯基微笑了一下，默默地點頭表示遵命。納魯莫夫笑著祝賀格爾曼開了長期的賭戒，並祝他有個幸運的開端。　　「來吧！」格爾曼用粉筆在自己的牌下寫下賭注的數目，說。　　「請問是多少？」莊家瞇起眼睛，問道，「請原諒，我看不清楚。」　　「四萬七千。」格爾曼答道。　　聽到這話，所有的人一下子都轉過頭來，所有的眼睛都盯著格爾曼。「他瘋啦！」納魯莫夫心裡想。　　「請允許我奉告，」切卡林斯基始終帶著微笑說，「您下的注太大了：這裡還沒有人在一張牌上下的注超過二百七十五的呢。」　　「怎麼？」格爾曼反問道，「您打不打算贏我的牌？」　　切卡林斯基還是恭順地行禮，表示遵命。　　「我只是要奉告，」他說，「蒙諸位相信我，我坐莊只能來現錢。從我來說，我當然相信您的話，但是為了賭博的規矩和計算方便，請把錢放在牌上。」　　格爾曼從口袋裡掏出鈔票交給切卡林斯基，切卡林斯基很快地看了一眼，便放在格爾曼的牌上。　　他開始分牌。右邊翻出來的是九點，左邊翻出三點。　　「我贏了！」格爾曼翻出自己的牌，說。　　賭客中響起一陣低語。切卡林斯基皺了皺眉頭，又恢復了笑容。　　「您就要取錢嗎？」他問格爾曼。　　「勞駕。」　　切卡林斯基從口袋裡取出幾張鈔票，立刻把錢付清。格爾曼接過錢，便離開了賭桌。納魯莫夫被弄得摸不著頭腦。格爾曼喝了一杯檸檬水，就回家了。　　第二天晚上，他又到了切卡林斯基那裡。主人在分牌。格爾曼走到牌桌前，賭客們馬上給他讓出一個位子。切卡林斯基親切地對他點了點頭。　　格爾曼等到下一局開始，擺下一張牌，把自己的四萬七和昨天贏來的錢都押在牌上。　　切卡林斯基開始分牌。右邊翻出來是十一點，左邊是七點。　　格爾曼翻開牌來：七點。　　大家都驚叫起來。切卡林斯基顯然著慌了。他數了九萬四千遞給格爾曼。格爾曼若無其事地接了錢，立即離去。　　下一天晚上，格爾曼又來到牌桌旁。大家都在等他。幾位將軍和三級文官放下惠斯特不打，都來看這場不尋常的賭博。青年軍官們從沙發上跳起來，所有的侍者都聚集在客廳裡。人家都圍住格爾曼。其他的賭客都不下注，焦急地等著看結果。格爾曼站在牌桌旁，準備單獨和臉色發白、但還是面帶微笑的切卡林斯基決一勝負。兩人各自拆開一副牌。切卡林斯基洗了牌。格爾曼錯了牌，取出一張牌，把一疊鈔票押在上面。這就像是一場決鬥。周圍鴉雀無聲。　　切卡林斯基開始分牌，他的手在發抖。右邊翻出是一張皇后，左邊是Ace。　　「Ace贏了！」格爾曼說著翻開自己的牌。　　「您的皇后輸了。」切卡林斯基態度和藹地說。　　格爾曼顫抖了一下：果然，他的牌不是Ace，而是黑桃皇后。他不相信自己的眼睛，他不明白他怎麼會抽錯了牌。　　在這一剎那，他覺得黑桃皇后瞇起眼睛冷笑了一下。這種不尋常的酷似使他震驚……　　「老太婆！」他嚇得叫了起來。　　切卡林斯基把贏到的鈔票摟到跟前。格爾曼呆呆地站著。當他離開牌桌的時候，大伙都熱烈地談論起來。「賭得真帶勁！」賭客們說。切卡林斯基又洗牌，牌局照常進行。　

　
結 局　　

格爾曼瘋了！他住在奧布霍夫醫院第十七號病房裡，人家問什麼他都不回答，嘴裡很快地念叨著：「三點、七點、Ace！三點，七點、皇后！……」　　麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜嫁了個非常可愛的年輕人，他在某處供職，財產相當可觀：他是老伯爵夫人從前的管家的兒子。麗莎白.伊凡諾夫娜收養了一個窮親戚的姑娘。　　托姆斯基升為騎兵大尉，娶了波利娜公爵小姐。

Alexander Pushkin 亞歷山大·普希金

亞歷山大·謝爾蓋耶維奇·普希金 (1799～1837)（Александр Сергеевич Пушкин），1799年6月6日/俄歷5月26日)出生於沙俄莫斯科，1837年1月29日逝世於聖彼得堡，是俄國著名的文學家、偉大的詩人、小說家，及現代俄國文學的創始人。19世紀俄國浪漫主義文學主要代表，同時也是現實主義文學的奠基人，現代標準俄語的創始人，被譽為「俄國文學之父」、「俄國詩歌的太陽」。他諸體皆擅，創立了俄國民族文學和文學語言，在詩歌、小說、戲劇乃至童話等文學各個領域都給俄羅斯文學提供了典範 。普希金還被高爾基譽為「一切開端的開端 」。 出生於貴族家庭。童年開始寫詩，在沙皇政府專為培養貴族子弟而設立的皇村高等學校學習。學習期間受到當時進步的十二月黨人及一些進步思想家的影響。後來發表的不少詩作抨擊農奴制度，歌頌自由與進步。普希金的作品除了詩歌以外，主要還有長篇小說《上尉的女兒》，歷史紀實語的創始人。《普加喬夫史》詩體小說《葉甫蓋尼·奧涅金》，中篇小說《杜布羅夫斯基》，《別爾金小說集》等。普希金在創作活動上備受沙皇政府迫害。1837年在一次陰謀佈置的決鬥中遇害。他的創作對俄國文學和語言的發展和影響很大。　　普希金1799年6月6日出生於莫斯科一個家道中落的貴族地主家庭，一生傾向革命，與黑暗專制進行不屈不撓的鬥爭，他的思想與詩作，引起沙皇俄國統治者的不滿和仇恨，他曾兩度被流放，始終不肯屈服，最終在沙皇政府的陰謀策劃下與人決鬥而死，年僅38歲。他在濃厚的文學氛圍中長大。童年時代，他由法國家庭教師管教，接受了貴族教育，8歲時已可以用法語寫詩。家中藏書豐富，結交文學名流，他的農奴出身的保姆常常給他講述俄羅斯的民間故事和傳說，使得他從小就領略了豐富的俄羅斯語言，對民間創作發生濃厚興趣。　　1811年，普希金進入貴族子弟學校皇村學校學習，年僅12歲就開始了其文學創作生涯。1815年，在中學考試中他朗誦了自己創作的「皇村回憶」 ，表現出了卓越的詩歌寫作才能，特別是他詩作韻文的優美和精巧得到了廣泛的讚賞。在早期的詩作中，他效仿浪漫派詩人巴丘什科夫和茹科夫斯基，學習17--18世紀法國詩人安德列謝尼埃的風格。在皇村中學學習期間，他還接受了法國啟蒙思想的熏陶並且結交了一些後來成為十二月黨人的禁衛軍軍官，反對沙皇專治，追求自由的思想初步形成。　　普希金畢業後到彼得堡外交部供職，在此期間，他深深地被以後的十二月黨人及其民主自由思想所感染，參與了與十二月黨人秘密組織有聯繫的文學團體「綠燈社」，創作了許多反對農奴制、謳歌自由的詩歌，如《自由頌》（1817年）；《致恰達耶夫》，（1818）年；《鄉村》，（1819年），1820年，普希金創作童話敘事長詩《魯斯蘭與柳德米拉》。故事取材於俄羅斯民間傳說，描寫騎士魯斯蘭克服艱難險阻戰勝敵人，終於找回了新娘 柳德米拉。普希金在詩中運用了生動的民間語言，從內容到形式都不同於古典主義詩歌，向貴族傳統文學提出挑戰。　　普希金的這些作品引起了沙皇政府的不安，1820年他被外派到俄國南部任職，這其實是一次變相的流放。在此期間，他與十二月黨人的交往更加頻繁，參加了一些十二月黨的秘密會議。他追求自由的思想更明確，更強烈了。普希金寫下《短劍》（1821）、《囚徒》（1822）《致大海》（1824）等名篇，還寫了一組「南方詩篇」，包括《高加索的俘虜》（1822）、《強盜兄弟》（1822）、《巴赫切薩拉依的淚泉》（1824）、《茨岡》（1824）四篇浪漫主義敘事長詩。還寫下了許多優美的抒情詩：《太陽沉沒了》(1820)、《囚徒》和《短劍》(1821)等，這些表達了詩人對自由的強烈憧憬。從這一時期起，普希金完全展示了自己獨特的風格。　　1824--1825年，普希金又被沙皇當局送回了普斯科夫省的他父母的領地米哈伊洛夫斯克村，在這裡他度過了兩年。幽禁期間，他創作了近百首詩歌，他搜集民歌、故事，鑽研俄羅斯歷史，思想更加成熟，創作上的現實主義傾向也愈發明顯。1825年他完成了俄羅斯文學史上第一部現實主義悲劇《鮑裡斯·戈都諾夫》的創作。　　1826年，沙皇尼古拉一世登基，為了籠絡人心，把普希金召回莫斯科，但仍處於沙皇警察的秘密監視之下。普希金沒有改變對十二月黨人的態度，他曾對新沙皇抱有幻想，希望尼古拉一世能赦免被流放在西伯利亞的十二月黨人，但幻想很快破滅，於是創作政治抒情詩《致西伯利亞的囚徒》，表達自己對十二月黨理想的忠貞不渝。　　1830年秋，普希金在他父親的領地度過了三個月，這是他一生創作的豐收時期，在文學史上被稱為「波爾金諾的秋天」。他完成了自1823年開始動筆的詩體小說《葉甫蓋尼·奧涅金》，塑造了俄羅斯文學中第一個「多餘人」的形象，這成為他最重要的作品。還寫了《別爾金小說集》和四部詩體小說《吝嗇的騎士》、《莫扎特與沙萊裡》、《瘟疫流行的宴會》、《石客》，以及近30首抒情詩。《別爾金小說集》中的《驛站長》一篇是俄羅斯短篇小說的典範，開啟了塑造「小人物」的傳統，他的現實主義創作爐火純青。 　　1831年普希金遷居彼得堡，仍然在外交部供職。他繼續創作了許多作品，主要有敘事長詩《青銅騎士》（1833）、童話詩《漁夫和金魚的故事》（1833）、短篇小說《黑桃皇后》（1834）等。他還寫了兩部有關農民問題的小說《杜布洛夫斯基》（1832-1833）、《上尉的女兒》（1836）。　　1836年普希金創辦了文學雜誌《現代人》。該刊物後來由別林斯基、涅克拉索夫、車爾尼雪夫斯基、杜勃羅留波夫等編輯，一直辦到19世紀60年代，不僅培養了一大批優秀的作家，而且成為俄羅斯進步人士的喉舌。　　普希金的創作和活動令沙皇政府頗感頭痛，他們用陰謀手段挑撥法國籍憲兵隊長丹特斯褻瀆普希金的妻子納塔利婭·尼古拉耶芙娜·岡察洛娃，結果導致了1837年普希金和丹特斯的決鬥。決鬥中普希金身負重傷，1837年2月8日不治身亡，年僅38歲。他的早逝令俄國進步文人曾經這樣感歎：「俄國詩歌的太陽沉落了」。 　　普希金作品崇高的思想性和完美的藝術性使他具有世界性的重大影響。他的作品被譯成全世界所有的主要文字。普希金在他的作品中所表現的對自由、對生活的熱愛，對光明必能戰勝黑暗、理智必能戰勝偏見的堅定信仰，他的「用語言把人們的心靈燃亮」的崇高使命感和偉大抱負深深感動著一代又一代的人。天才的傑作，激發了多少俄羅斯音樂家的創作激情和靈感。以普希金詩篇作腳本的歌劇《葉甫根尼‧奧涅金》、《鮑裡斯‧戈都諾夫》、《黑桃皇后》、《魯斯蘭與柳德米拉》、《茨岡》等等，無一不是偉大的音樂作品；普希金的抒情詩被譜上曲，成了膾炙人口的藝術歌曲；還有的作品還被改編成芭蕾舞，成為舞台上不朽的經典。 　　為了紀念普希金，人們把他出生的皇村改名為普希金（1796年葉卡捷琳娜大帝就在這裡去世）。現在這裡已經成為著名的旅遊景點，而且著名的波爾金諾村也在這附近。

The lady with the Dog 帶小狗的女人

By Anton Chekhov

I
People were telling one another that a newcomer had been seen on the promenade--a lady with a dog. Dmitri Dmitrich Gurov had been a fortnight in Yalta, and was accustomed to its ways, and he, too, had begun to take an interest in fresh arrivals. From his seat in Vernet's outdoor café, he caught sight of a young woman in a toque, passing along the promenade; she was fair and not very tall; after her trotted a white Pomeranian.
Later he encountered her in the municipal park and in the square several times a day. She was always alone, wearing the same toque, and the Pomeranian always trotted at her side. Nobody knew who she was, and people referred to her simply as "the lady with the dog."
"If she's here without her husband, and without any friends," thought Gurov, "it wouldn't be a bad idea to make her acquaintance."
He was not yet forty but had a twelve-year-old daughter and two sons in high school. He had been talked into marrying in his third year at college, and his wife now looked nearly twice as old as he did. She was a tall woman with dark eyebrows, erect, dignified, imposing, and, as she said of herself, a "thinker." She was a great reader, omitted the "hard sign" at the end of words in her letters, and called her husband "Dimitry" instead of Dmitry; and though he secretly considered her shallow, narrow-minded, and dowdy, he stood in awe of her, and disliked being at home. He had first begun deceiving her long ago and he was now constantly unfaithful to her, and this was no doubt why he spoke slightingly of women, to whom he referred as the lower race.
He considered that the ample lessons he had received from bitter experience entitled him to call them whatever he liked, but without this "lower race" he could not have existed a single day. He was bored and ill-at-ease in the company of men, with whom he was always cold and reserved, but felt quite at home among women, and knew exactly what to say to them, and how to behave; he could even be silent in their company without feeling the slightest awkwardness. There was an elusive charm in his appearance and disposition which attracted women and caught their sympathies. He knew this and was himself attracted to them by some invisible force.
Repeated and hitter experience had taught him that every fresh intimacy, while at first introducing such pleasant variety into every-day life, and offering itself as a charming, light adventure, inevitably developed, among decent people (especially in Moscow, where they are so irresolute and slow to move), into a problem of excessive complication leading to an intolerably irksome situation. But every time he encountered an attractive woman he forgot all about this experience, the desire for life surged up in him, and everything suddenly seemed simple and amusing.
One evening, then, while he was dining at the restaurant in the park, the lady in the toque came strolling up and took a seat at a neighboring table. Her expression, gait, dress, coiffure, all told him that she was from the upper classes, that she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first time, alone and bored. . . . The accounts of the laxity of morals among visitors to Yalta are greatly exaggerated, and he paid no heed to them, knowing that for the most part they were invented by people who would gladly have transgressed themselves, had they known how to set about it. But when the lady sat down at a neighboring table a few yards away from him, these stories of easy conquests, of excursions to the mountains, came back to him, and the seductive idea of a brisk transitory liaison, an affair with a woman whose very name he did not know, suddenly took possession of his mind.
He snapped his fingers at the Pomeranian and, when it trotted up to him, shook his forefinger at it. The Pomeranian growled. Gurov shook his finger again.
The lady glanced at him and instantly lowered her eyes.
"He doesn't bite," she said, and blushed.
"May I give him a bone?" he asked, and on her nod of consent added in friendly tones: "Have you been long in Yalta?"
"About five days."
"And I am dragging out my second week here."
Neither spoke for a few minutes.
"The days pass quickly, and yet one is so bored here," she said, not looking at him.
"It's the thing to say it's boring here. People never complain of boredom in godforsaken holes like Belyev or Zhizdra, but when they get here it's: 'Oh, the dullness! Oh, the dust!' You'd think they'd come from Granada to say the least."
She laughed. Then they both went on eating in silence, like complete strangers. But after dinner they left the restaurant together, and embarked upon the light, jesting talk of people free and contented, for whom it is all the same where they go, or what they talk about. They strolled along, remarking on the strange light over the sea. The water was a warm, tender purple, the moonlight lay on its surface in a golden strip. They said how close it was, after the hot day. Gurov told her he was from Moscow, had a degree in literature but worked in a bank; that he had at one time trained himself to sing in a private opera company, but had given up the idea; that he owned two houses in Moscow. . . . And from her he learned that she had grown up in Petersburg, but had gotten married in the town of S., where she had been living two years, that she would stay another month in Yalta, and that perhaps her husband, who also needed a rest, would join her. She was quite unable to explain whether her husband was a member of the province council, or on the board of the zemstvo, and was greatly amused at herself for this. Further, Gurov learned that her name was Anna Sergeyevna.
Back in his own room he thought about her, and felt sure he would meet her the next day. It was inevitable. As he went to bed he reminded himself that only a very short time ago she had been a schoolgirl, like his own daughter, learning her lessons, he remembered how much there was of shyness and constraint in her laughter, in her way of conversing with a stranger--it was probably the first time in her life that she found herself alone, and in a situation in which men could follow her and watch her, and speak to her, all the time with a secret aim she could not fail to divine. He recalled her slender, delicate neck, her fine gray eyes.
"And yet there's something pathetic about her," he thought to himself as he fell asleep.
II
A week had passed since the beginning of their acquaintance. It was a holiday. Indoors it was stuffy, but the dust rose in clouds out of doors, and people's hats blew off. It was a parching day and Gurov kept going to the outdoor café for fruit drinks and ices to offer Anna Sergeyevna. The heat was overpowering.
In the evening, when the wind had dropped, they walked to the pier to see the steamer come in. There were a great many people strolling about the landing-place; some, bunches of flowers in their hands, were meeting friends. Two peculiarities of the smart Yalta crowd stood out distinctly--the elderly ladies all tried to dress very youthfully, and there seemed to be an inordinate number of generals about.
Owing to the roughness of the sea the steamer arrived late, after the sun had gone down, and it had to maneuver for some time before it could get alongside the pier. Anna Sergeyevna scanned the steamer and passengers through her lorgnette, as if looking for someone she knew, and when she turned to Gurov her eyes were glistening. She talked a great deal, firing off abrupt questions and forgetting immediately what it was she had wanted to know. Then she lost her lorgnette in the crush.
The smart crowd began dispersing, features could no longer be made out, the wind had quite dropped, and Gurov and Anna Sergeyevna stood there as if waiting for someone else to come off the steamer. Anna Sergeyevna had fallen silent, every now and then smelling her flowers, but not looking at Gurov.
"It's turned out a fine evening," he said. "What shall we do? We might go for a drive."
She made no reply.
He looked steadily at her and suddenly took her in his arms and kissed her lips, and the fragrance and dampness of the flowers closed round him, but the next moment he looked behind him in alarm--had anyone seen them? "Let's go to your room," he murmured.
And they walked off together, very quickly.
Her room was stuffy and smelt of some scent she had bought in the Japanese shop. Gurov looked at her, thinking to himself: "How full of strange encounters life is!" He could remember carefree, good-natured women who were exhilarated by love-making and grateful to him for the happiness he gave them, however short-lived; and there had been others--his wife among them--whose caresses were insincere, affected, hysterical, mixed up with a great deal of quite unnecessary talk, and whose expression seemed to say that all this was not just lovemaking or passion, but something much more significant; then there had been two or three beautiful, cold women, over whose features flitted a predatory expression, betraying a determination to wring from life more than it could give, women no longer in their first youth, capricious, irrational, despotic, brainless, and when Gurov had cooled to these, their beauty aroused in him nothing but repulsion, and the lace trimming on their underclothes reminded him of fish-scales.
But here the timidity and awkwardness of youth and inexperience were still apparent; and there was a feeling of embarrassment in the atmosphere, as if someone had just knocked at the door. Anna Sergeyevna, "the lady with the dog," seemed to regard the affair as something very special, very serious, as if she had become a fallen woman, an attitude he found odd and disconcerting. Her features lengthened and drooped, and her long hair hung mournfully on either side of her face. She assumed a pose of dismal meditation, like a repentant sinner in some classical painting.
"It isn't right," she said. "You will never respect me anymore."
On the table was a watermelon. Gurov cut himself a slice from it and began slowly eating it. At least half an hour passed in silence.
Anna Sergeyevna was very touching, revealing the purity of a decent, naïve woman who had seen very little of life. The solitary candle burning on the table scarcely lit up her face, but it was obvious that her heart was heavy.
"Why should I stop respecting you?" asked Gurov. "You don't know what you're saying."
"May God forgive me!" she exclaimed, and her eyes filled with tears. "It's terrible."
"No need to seek to justify yourself."
"How can I justify myself? I'm a wicked, fallen woman, I despise myself and have not the least thought of self-justification. It isn't my husband I have deceived, it's myself. And not only now, I have been deceiving myself for ever so long. My husband is no doubt an honest, worthy man, but he's a flunky. I don't know what it is he does at his office, but I know he's a flunky. I was only twenty when I married him, and I was devoured by curiosity, I wanted something higher. I told myself that there must be a different kind of life I wanted to live, to live. . . . I was burning with curiosity . . . you'll never understand that, but I swear to God I could no longer control myself, nothing could hold me back, I told my husband I was ill, and I came here. . . . And I started going about like one possessed, like a madwoman and now I have become an ordinary, worthless woman, and everyone has the right to despise me."
Gurov listened to her, bored to death. The naïve accents, the remorse, all was so unexpected, so out of place. But for the tears in her eyes, she might have been jesting or play-acting.
"I don't understand," he said gently. "What is it you want?"
She hid her face against his breast and pressed closer to him.
"Do believe me, I implore you to believe me," she said. "I love all that is honest and pure in life, vice is revolting to me, I don't know what I'm doing. The common people say they are snared by the Devil. And now I can say that I have been snared by the Devil, too."
"Come, come," he murmured.
He gazed into her fixed, terrified eyes, kissed her, and soothed her with gentle affectionate words, and gradually she calmed down and regained her cheerfulness. Soon they were laughing together again.
When, a little later, they went out, there was not a soul on the promenade, the town and its cypresses looked dead, but the sea was still roaring as it dashed against the beach. A solitary fishing-boat tossed on the waves, its lamp blinking sleepily.
They found a carriage and drove to Oreanda.
"I discovered your name in the hall, just now," said Gurov, "written up on the board. Von Diederitz. Is your husband a German?"
"No. His grandfather was, I think, but he belongs to the Orthodox Church himself."
When they got out of the carriage at Oreanda they sat down on a bench not far from the church, and looked down at the sea, without talking. Yalta could be dimly discerned through the morning mist, and white clouds rested motionless on the summits of the mountains. Not a leaf stirred, the grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow roar of the sea came up to them, speaking of peace, of the eternal sleep lying in wait for us all. The sea had roared like this long before there was any Yalta or Oreanda, it was roaring now, and it would go on roaring, just as indifferently and hollowly, when we had passed away. And it may be that in this continuity, this utter indifference to the life and death of each of us lies hidden the pledge of our eternal salvation, of the continuous movement of life on earth, of the continuous movement toward perfection.
Side by side with a young woman, who looked so exquisite in the early light, soothed and enchanted by the sight of all this magical beauty--sea, mountains, clouds and the vast expanse of the sky--Gurov told himself that, when you came to think of it, everything in the world is beautiful really, everything but our own thoughts and actions, when we lose sight of the higher aims of life, and of our dignity as human beings.
Someone approached them--a watchman, probably--looked at them and went away. And there was something mysterious and beautiful even in this. The steamer from Feodosia could be seen coming towards the pier, lit up by the dawn, its lamps out.
"There's dew on the grass," said Anna Sergeyevna, breaking the silence.
"Yes. Time to go home."
They went back to the town.
After this they met every day at noon on the promenade, lunching and dining together, going for walks, and admiring the sea. She complained of sleeplessness, of palpitations, asked the same questions over and over again, alternately surrendering to jealousy and the fear that he did not really respect her. And often, when there was nobody in sight in the square or the park, he would draw her to him and kiss her passionately. The utter idleness, these kisses in broad daylight, accompanied by furtive glances and the fear of discovery, the heat, the smell of the sea, and the idle, smart, well-fed people continually crossing their field of vision, seemed to have given him a new lease of life. He told Anna Sergeyevna she was beautiful and seductive, made love to her with impetuous passion, and never left her side, while she was always pensive, always trying to force from him the admission that he did not respect her, that he did not love her a bit, and considered her just an ordinary woman. Almost every night they drove out of town, to Oreanda, the waterfall, or some other beauty-spot. And these excursions were invariably a success, each contributing fresh impressions of majestic beauty.
All this time they kept expecting her husband to arrive. But a letter came in which he told his wife that he was having trouble with his eyes, and implored her to come home as soon as possible. Anna Sergeyevna made hasty preparations for leaving.
"It's a good thing I'm going," she said to Gurov. "It's the intervention of fate."
She left Yalta in a carriage, and he went with her as far as the railway station. The drive took nearly a whole day. When she got into the express train, after the second bell had been rung, she said:
"Let me have one more look at you. . . . One last look. That's right."
She did not weep, but was mournful, and seemed ill, the muscles of her cheeks twitching.
"I shall think of you . . . I shall think of you all the time," she said. "God bless you! Think kindly of me. We are parting forever, it must be so, because we ought never to have met. Good-bye--God bless you."
The train steamed rapidly out of the station, its lights soon disappearing, and a minute later even the sound it made was silenced, as if everything were conspiring to bring this sweet oblivion, this madness, to an end as quickly as possible. And Gurov, standing alone on the platform and gazing into the dark distance, listened to the shrilling of the grasshoppers and the humming of the telegraph wires, with a feeling that he had only just awakened. And he told himself that this had been just one more of the many adventures in his life, and that it, too, was over, leaving nothing but a memory. . . . He was moved and sad, and felt a slight remorse. After all, this young woman whom he would never again see had not been really happy with him. He had been friendly and affectionate with her, but in his whole behaviour, in the tones of his voice, in his very caresses, there had been a shade of irony, the insulting indulgence of the fortunate male, who was, moreover, almost twice her age. She had insisted in calling him good, remarkable, high-minded. Evidently he had appeared to her different from his real self, in a word he had involuntarily deceived her. . . .
There was an autumnal feeling in the air, and the evening was chilly.
"It's time for me to be going north, too," thought Gurov, as he walked away from the platform. "High time!"
III
When he got back to Moscow it was beginning to look like winter; the stoves were heated every day, and it was still dark when the children got up to go to school and drank their tea, so that the nurse had to light the lamp for a short time. Frost had set in. When the first snow falls, and one goes for one's first sleigh-ride, it is pleasant to see the white ground, the white roofs; one breathes freely and lightly, and remembers the days of one's youth. The ancient lime-trees and birches, white with hoarfrost, have a good-natured look, they are closer to the heart than cypresses and palms, and beneath their branches one is no longer haunted by the memory of mountains and the sea.
Gurov had always lived in Moscow, and he returned to Moscow on a fine frosty day, and when he put on his fur-lined overcoat and thick gloves, and sauntered down Petrovka Street, and when, on Saturday evening, he heard the church bells ringing, his recent journey and the places he had visited lost their charm for him. He became gradually immersed in Moscow life, reading with avidity three newspapers a day, while declaring he never read Moscow newspapers on principle. Once more he was caught up in a whirl of restaurants, clubs, banquets, and celebrations, once more glowed with the flattering consciousness that well-known lawyers and actors came to his house, that he played cards in the Medical Club opposite a professor. He could once again eat a whole serving of Moscow Fish Stew served in a pan.
He had believed that in a month's time Anna Sergeyevna would be nothing but a vague memory, and that hereafter, with her wistful smile, she would only occasionally appear to him in dreams, like others before her. But the month was now well over and winter was in full swing, and all was as clear in his memory as if he had parted with Anna Sergeyevna only the day before. And his recollections grew ever more insistent. When the voices of his children at their lessons reached him in his study through the evening stillness, when he heard a song, or the sounds of a music-box in a restaurant, when the wind howled in the chimney, it all came back to him: early morning on the pier, the misty mountains, the steamer from Feodosia, the kisses. He would pace up and down his room for a long time, smiling at his memories, and then memory turned into dreaming, and what had happened mingled in his imagination with what was going to happen. Anna Sergeyevna did not come to him in his dreams, she accompanied him everywhere, like his shadow, following him everywhere he went. When he closed his eyes, she seemed to stand before him in the flesh, still lovelier, younger, tenderer than she had really been, and looking back, he saw himself, too, as better than he had been in Yalta. In the evenings she looked out at him from the bookshelves, the fireplace, the corner, he could hear her breathing, the sweet rustle of her skirts. In the streets he followed women with his eyes, to see if there were any like her. . . .
He began to feel an overwhelming desire to share his memories with someone. But he could not speak of his love at home, and outside his home who was there for him to confide in? Not the tenants living in his house, and certainly not his colleagues at the bank. And what was there to tell? Was it love that he had felt? Had there been anything exquisite, poetic, anything instructive or even amusing about his relations with Anna Sergeyevna? He had to content himself with uttering vague generalizations about love and women, and nobody guessed what he meant, though his wife's dark eyebrows twitched as she said:
"The role of a coxcomb doesn't suit you a bit, Dimitry."
One evening, leaving the Medical Club with one of his card-partners, a government official, he could not refrain from remarking:
"If you only knew what a charming woman I met in Yalta!"
The official got into his sleigh, and just before driving off, turned and called out:
"Dmitry Dmitrich!"
"Yes?"
"You were quite right, you know--the sturgeon was just a leetle off."
These words, in themselves so commonplace, for some reason infuriated Gurov, seemed to him humiliating, gross. What savage manners, what people! What wasted evenings, what tedious, empty days! Frantic card-playing, gluttony, drunkenness, perpetual talk always about the same thing. The greater part of one's time and energy went on business that was no use to anyone, and on discussing the same thing over and over again, and there was nothing to show for it all but a stunted wingless existence and a round of trivialities, and there was nowhere to escape to, you might as well be in a madhouse or a convict settlement.
Gurov lay awake all night, raging, and went about the whole of the next day with a headache. He slept badly on the succeeding nights, too, sitting up in bed, thinking, or pacing the floor of his room. He was sick of his children, sick of the bank, felt not the slightest desire to go anywhere or talk about anything.
When the Christmas holidays came, he packed his things, telling his wife he had to go to Petersburg in the interests of a certain young man, and set off for the town of S. To what end? He hardly knew himself. He only knew that he must see Anna Sergeyevna, must speak to her, arrange a meeting, if possible.
He arrived at S. in the morning and engaged the best suite in the hotel, which had a carpet of gray military frieze, and a dusty ink-pot on the table, surmounted by a headless rider, holding his hat in his raised hand. The hall porter told him what he wanted to know: von Diederitz had a house of his own in Staro-Goncharnaya Street. It wasn't far from the hotel, he lived on a grand scale, luxuriously, kept carriage-horses, the whole town knew him. The hall porter pronounced the name "Drideritz."
Gurov strolled over to Staro-Goncharnaya Street and discovered the house. In front of it was a long gray fence with inverted nails hammered into the tops of the palings.
"A fence like that is enough to make anyone want to run away, thought Gurov, looking at the windows of the house and the fence.
He reasoned that since it was a holiday, Anna's husband would probably be at home. In any case it would be tactless to embarrass her by calling at the house. And a note might fall into the hands of the husband, and bring about catastrophe. The best thing would be to wait about on the chance of seeing her. And he walked up and down the street, hovering in the vicinity of the fence, watching for his chance. A beggar entered the gate, only to be attacked by dogs, then, an hour later, the faint, vague sounds of a piano reached his ears. That would be Anna Sergeyevna playing. Suddenly the front door opened and an old woman came out, followed by a familiar white Pomeranian. Gurov tried to call to it, but his heart beat violently, and in his agitation he could not remember its name.
He walked on, hating the gray fence more and more, and now ready to tell himself irately that Anna Sergeyevna had forgotten him, had already, perhaps, found distraction in another--what could be more natural in a young woman who had to look at this accursed fence from morning to night? He went back to his hotel and sat on the sofa in his suite for some time, not knowing what to do, then lie ordered dinner, and after dinner, had a long sleep.
"What a foolish, restless business," he thought, waking up and looking towards the dark windowpanes. It was evening by now. "Well, I've had my sleep out. And what am I to do in the night?"
He sat up in bed, covered by the cheap gray quilt, which reminded him of a hospital blanket, and in his vexation he fell to taunting himself.
"You and your lady with a dog. . . there's adventure for you! See what you get for your pains."
On his arrival at the station that morning he had noticed a poster announcing in enormous letters the first performance at the local theatre of The Geisha. Remembering this; he got up and made for the theatre.
"It's highly probable that she goes to first nights," he told himself.
The theatre was full. It was a typical provincial theatre, with a mist collecting over the chandeliers, and the crowd in the gallery fidgeting noisily. In the first row of the stalls the local dandies stood waiting for the curtain to go up, their hands clasped behind them. There, in the front seat of the governor's box, sat the governor's daughter, wearing a boa, the governor himself hiding modestly behind the drapes, so that only his hands were visible. The curtain stirred, the orchestra took a long time tuning up their instruments. Gurov's eyes roamed eagerly over the audience as they filed in and occupied their seats.
Anna Sergeyevna came in, too. She seated herself in the third row of the stalls, and when Gurov's glance fell on her, his heart seemed to stop, and he knew in a flash that the whole world contained no one nearer or dearer to him, no one more important to his happiness. This little woman, lost in the provincial crowd, in no way remarkable, holding a silly lorgnette in her hand, now filled his whole life, was his grief, his joy, all that he desired. Lulled by the sounds coming from the wretched orchestra, with its feeble, amateurish violinists, he thought how beautiful she was . . . thought and dreamed. . . .
Anna Sergeyevna was accompanied by a tall, round-shouldered young man with small whiskers, who nodded at every step before taking the seat beside her and seemed to be continually bowing to someone. This must be her husband, whom, in a fit of bitterness, at Yalta, she had called a "flunky." And there really was something of a lackey's servility in his lanky figure, his side-whiskers, and the little bald spot on the top of his head. And he smiled sweetly, and the badge of some scientific society gleaming in his buttonhole was like the number on a footman's livery.
The husband went out to smoke in the first interval, and she was left alone in her seat. Gurov, who had taken a seat in the stalls, went up to her and said in a trembling voice, with a forced smile: "How d'you do?"
She glanced up at him and turned pale, then looked at him again in alarm, unable to believe her eyes, squeezing her fan and lorgnette in one hand, evidently struggling to overcome a feeling of faintness. Neither of them said a word. She sat there, and he stood beside her, disconcerted by her embarrassment, and not daring to sit down. The violins and flutes sang out as they were tuned, and there was a tense sensation in the atmosphere, as if they were being watched from all the boxes. At last she got up and moved rapidly towards one of the exits. He followed her and they wandered aimlessly along corridors, up and down stairs; figures flashed by in the uniforms of legal officials, high-school teachers and civil servants, all wearing badges; ladies, coats hanging from pegs flashed by; there was a sharp draft, bringing with it an odor of cigarette butts. And Gurov, whose heart was beating violently, thought:
"What on earth are all these people, this orchestra for?. . ."
The next minute he suddenly remembered how, after seeing Anna Sergeyevna off that evening at the station, he had told himself that all was over, and they would never meet again. And how far away the end seemed to be now!
She stopped on a dark narrow staircase over which was a notice bearing the inscription "To the upper circle."
"How you frightened me!" she said, breathing heavily, still pale and half-stunned. "Oh, how you frightened me! I'm almost dead! Why did you come? Oh, why?"
"But, Anna," he said, in low, hasty tones. "But, Anna. . .Try to understand . . . do try. . . ."
She cast him a glance of fear, entreaty, love, and then gazed at him steadily, as if to fix his features firmly in her memory.
"I've been so unhappy," she continued, taking no notice of his words. "I could think of nothing but you the whole time, I lived on the thoughts of you. I tried to forget-why, oh, why did you come?"
On the landing above them were two schoolboys, smoking and looking down, but Gurov did not care, and, drawing Anna Sergeyevna towards him, began kissing her face, her lips, her hands.
"What are you doing, oh, what are you doing?" she said in horror, drawing back. "We have both gone mad. Go away this very night, this moment. . . . By all that is sacred, I implore you. . . Somebody is coming."
Someone was ascending the stairs.
"You must go away," went on Anna Sergeyevna in a whisper. "D'you hear me, Dmitry Dmitrich? I'll come to you in Moscow. I have never been happy, I am unhappy now, and I shall never be happy--never! Do not make me suffer still more! I will come to you in Moscow, I swear it! And now we must part! My dear one, my kind one, my darling, we must part."
She pressed his hand and hurried down the stairs, looking back at him continually, and her eyes showed that she was in truth unhappy. Gurov stood where he was for a short time, listening, and when all was quiet, went to look for his coat, and left the theatre.
IV
And Anna Sergeyevna began going to Moscow to see him. Every two or three months she left the town of S., telling her husband that she was going to consult a specialist on female diseases, and her husband believed her and did not believe her. In Moscow she always stayed at the Slavyanski Bazaar, sending a man in a red cap to Gurov the moment she arrived. Gurov went to her, and no one in Moscow knew anything about it.
One winter morning he went to see her as usual (the messenger had been to him the evening before, but had not found him at home). His daughter was with him, for her school was on the way and he thought he might as well see her to it.
"It is forty degrees," said Gurov to his daughter, "and yet it is snowing. You see it is only above freezing close to the ground, the temperature in the upper layers of the atmosphere is quite different."
"Why doesn't it ever thunder in winter, Papa?"
He explained this, too. As he was speaking, he kept reminding himself that he was going to a rendezvous and that not a living soul knew about it, or, probably, ever would. He led a double life--one in public, in the sight of all whom it concerned, full of conventional truth and conventional deception, exactly like the lives of his friends and acquaintances, and another which flowed in secret. And, owing to some strange, possibly quite accidental chain of circumstances, everything that was important, interesting, essential, everything about which he was sincere and never deceived himself, everything that composed the kernel of his life, went on in secret, while everything that was false in him, everything that composed the husk in which he hid himself and the truth which was in him-his work at the bank, discussions at the club, his "lower race," his attendance at anniversary celebrations with his wife-was on the surface. He began to judge others by himself, no longer believing what he saw, and always assuming that the real, the only interesting life of every individual goes on as under cover of night, secretly. Every individual existence revolves around mystery, and perhaps that is the chief reason that all cultivated individuals insisted so strongly on the respect due to personal secrets.
After leaving his daughter at the door of her school Gurov set off for the Slavyanski Bazaar. Taking off his overcoat in the lobby, he went upstairs and knocked softly on the door. Anna Sergeyevna, wearing the gray dress he liked most, exhausted by her journey and by suspense, had been expecting him since the evening before. She was pale and looked at him without smiling, but was in his arms almost before he was fairly in the room. Their kiss was lingering, prolonged, as if they had not met for years.
"Well, how are you?" he asked. "Anything new?"
"Wait, I'll tell you in a minute I can't . . . "
She could not speak, because she was crying. Turning away, she held her handkerchief to her eyes.
"I'll wait till she's had her cry out," he thought, and sank into a chair.
He rang for tea, and a little later, while he was drinking it, she was still standing there, her face to the window. She wept from emotion, from her bitter consciousness of the sadness of their life; they could only see one another in secret, hiding from people, as if they were thieves. Was not their life a broken one?
"Don't cry," he said.
It was quite obvious to him that this love of theirs would not soon come to an end, and that no one could say when this end would be. Anna Sergeyevna loved him ever more fondly, worshipped him, and there would have been no point in telling her that one day it must end. Indeed, she would not have believed him.
He moved over and took her by the shoulders, intending to caress her, to make a joke, but suddenly he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass.
His hair was already beginning to turn gray. It struck him as strange that he should have aged so much in the last few years, have lost so much of his looks. The shoulders on which his hands lay were warm and quivering. He felt a pity for this life, still so warm and exquisite, but probably soon to fade and droop like his own. Why did she love him so? Women had always believed him different from what he really was, had loved in him not himself but the man their imagination pictured him, a man they had sought for eagerly all their lives. And afterwards when they discovered their mistake, they went on loving him just the same. And not one of them had ever been happy with him. Time had passed, he had met one woman after another, become intimate with each, parted with each, but had never loved. There had been all sorts of things between them, but never love.
And only now, when he was gray-haired, had he fallen in love properly, thoroughly, for the first time in his life.
He and Anna Sergeyevna loved one another as people who are very close and intimate, as husband and wife, as dear friends love one another. It seemed to them that fate had intended them for one another, and they could not understand why she should have a husband, and he a wife. They were like two migrating birds, the male and the female, who had been caught and put into separate cages. They forgave one another all that they were ashamed of in the past and in the present, and felt that this love of theirs had changed them both.
Formerly, in moments of melancholy, he had consoled himself by the first argument that came into his head, but now arguments were nothing to him, he felt profound pity, desired to be sincere, tender.
"Stop crying, my dearest," he said. "You've had your cry, now stop. . . . Now let us have a talk, let us try and think what we are to do."
Then they discussed their situation for a long time, trying to think how they could get rid of the necessity for hiding, deception, living in different towns, being so long without meeting. How were they to shake off these intolerable fetters?
"How? How?" he repeated, clutching his head. "How?"
And it seemed to them that they were within an inch of arriving at a decision, and that then a new, beautiful life would begin. And they both realized that the end was still far, far away, and that the hardest, the most complicated part was only just beginning.
-1899-

中譯

據說，在堤岸上出現了一個新面孔：一個帶小狗的女人。德米特裡·德米特裡耶維奇·古羅夫已經在雅爾塔生活了兩個星期，對這個地方已經熟悉，也開始對新來的人發生興趣了。他坐在韋爾奈的售貨亭裡，看見堤岸上有一個年輕的金髮女人在走動，她身材不高，戴一頂圓形軟帽；有一條白毛的獅子狗跟在她後面跑。後來他在本城的公園裡，在街心小花園裡遇見她，一天遇見好幾次。她孤身一個人散步，老是戴著那頂軟帽，帶著那條白毛獅子狗；誰也不知道她是什麼人，就都簡單地把她稱做「帶小狗的女人」。
　　「如果她沒有跟她的丈夫住在這兒，也沒有熟人。」古羅夫暗自思忖道，「跟她認識一下，倒也不壞呢。」
　　他還沒到四十歲，可是已經有一個十二歲的女兒和兩個上中學的兒子了。他結婚很早，當時他還是大學二年級的學生，如今他妻子的年紀彷彿比他大半倍似的。她是一個高身量的女人，生著兩道黑眉毛，直率，嚴肅，莊重，按她對自己的說法，她是個有思想的女人。她讀過很多書，在信上不寫「b 」這個硬音符號，不叫她的丈夫德米特裡而叫吉米特裡；他呢，私下裡認為她智力有限，胸襟狹隘，缺少風雅，他怕她，不喜歡待在家裡。他早已開始背著她跟別的女人私通，而且不止一次了。大概就是因為這個緣故，他一講起女人幾乎總是說壞話；每逢人家在他面前談到女人，他總是這樣稱呼她們：「賤貨！」他認為他已經受夠了沉痛的經驗教訓，可以隨意罵她們了。可是話雖如此，只要他一連兩天身邊沒有那個「賤貨」，他就過不下去。他跟男人們相處覺得乏味，不稱心，跟他們沒有多少話好談，冷冷淡淡；可是到了女人中間，他就覺得自由自在，知道該跟她們談什麼，該採取什麼樣的態度；甚至跟她們不講話的時候也覺得很輕鬆。他的相貌、他的性格、他的全身心都具有一種迷人的、不可捉摸的東西，使得女人們對他發生好感，吸引她們；這一點他是知道的，同時也有一種未知的力量在把他推向她們那邊去。
　　多次的經驗，切實沉痛的經驗，早已教導他說：跟正派女人相好，特別是跟優柔寡斷、遲疑不決的莫斯科女人相好，起初倒還能夠給生活增添一點微妙的變化，就像是輕鬆可愛的生活插曲。過後卻不可避免地演變成為非常複雜的大問題，最後情況就會變得令人難以忍受了。可是每當他新遇到一位有情趣的女人，這種經驗不知為何總是從他的記憶裡消失；他渴望生活，於是一切都顯得十分簡單而引人入勝了。
　　有一天，將近傍晚，他正在公園裡吃飯，那個戴軟帽的女人慢慢地走過來，準備在他旁邊的一張桌子那兒坐下。她的神情、步態、服飾、髮型都告訴他說：她是一個上流社會的女人，已經結過婚，這是頭一次到雅爾塔來，孤身一人，覺得在這裡很寂寞。……那些關於本地風氣敗壞的傳聞，有許多都是假的，他不理會那些傳聞，知道這類傳聞大多是那些只要自己有機會也很樂意犯罪的人們捏造出來的；可是，等到那個女人在離他只有三步遠的那張桌子邊坐下來時，他就不由得想起那些關於風流艷遇和登山旅行的傳聞。於是，來一次快捷而短促的結合，跟一個身世不明、連姓名都不知道的女人干一回風流韻事這樣的誘人想法，就突然控制住了他。
　　他親切地招呼那條獅子狗，等到它真的走近的時候，他卻搖著手指頭嚇唬它。獅子狗汪汪地吠叫起來。古羅夫又搖著手指頭嚇唬它。那個女人瞟了他一眼，立刻低下眼簾。
　　「它不咬人。」她說著，臉紅了。
　　「可以給它一根骨頭吃嗎？」等到她肯定地點了一下頭，他就慇勤地問道：
　　「您來雅爾塔很久了吧？」
　　「有五天了。」
　　「可我在這裡已經待了兩個星期了。」
　　他們沉默了一會兒。
　　「光陰過得真快，可是這裡又是那麼沉悶！」她說著，眼睛沒有看他。
　　「講這裡沉悶，只不過是一種習慣的說詞罷了。一個市民居住在內地城市別廖夫或者日茲德拉，倒不覺得沉悶，可是到了這裡卻說：『唉，沉悶啊！哎，好大的灰塵！』別人會以為他是從格林納達來的呢。」
　　她笑了起來。後來這兩個人繼續沉默地吃著飯，像兩個不相識的人一樣。可是吃過飯之後他們並排走著，開始了一場說說笑笑的輕鬆談話。只有那種自由而滿足的、不管到哪兒去或者不管聊什麼都無所謂的人，才會這樣聊天。他們一邊散步，一邊談到海面多麼奇怪地放光，海水現出淡紫的顏色，那麼柔和而溫暖，在月光下，水面上蕩漾著幾條金黃色的長帶。他們談到炎熱的白晝過去以後天氣多麼悶熱。古羅夫說他是莫斯科人，在學校裡學的是語言文學，然而卻在一家銀行裡工作；先前他準備在一個私立的歌劇團裡演唱，可是後來不幹了，他在莫斯科有兩所房子。……他從她口中得知：她是在彼得堡長大的，可是出嫁以後就住到了斯城，已經在那裡住了兩年。她在雅爾塔還要呆上一個月，說不定她丈夫也會來，他也打算休養一下。至於她丈夫在什麼地方工作，是在省政府呢，還是在本省的地方自治局執行處，她卻無論如何也說不清楚，連她自己都覺得好笑。古羅夫還打聽到她的名叫安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜。
　　後來，他在自己的旅館裡想起她，想到明天勢必還會跟她見面，這是一定的。他上床躺下，想起她不久以前還是一名貴族女子中學的學生，還在唸書，就跟現在他的女兒一樣。想起她笑的時候，跟陌生人談話的時候，還是那麼靦腆，那麼侷促不安，大概這是她生平頭一次孤身一人處在這種環境裡吧？而在這種環境裡，人們純粹出於一種她不會不懂的私下目的跟蹤她，注意她，跟她交談。他想起她的瘦弱的脖子和她那雙美麗的灰色眼睛。
　　「總之，她那樣子有點可憐。」他想著，昏昏睡去了。
　　 二
　　他們相識以後，一個星期過去了。這一天是個節日。房間裡悶熱，而街道上刮著大風，捲起灰塵，吹掉了行人的帽子。人們一整天都口乾舌燥，古羅夫屢次到那個售貨亭去，時而請安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜喝果汁，時而請她吃冰淇淋。天氣真讓人不知躲到哪裡去才好。
　　傍晚風小了一點，他們就在防波堤上走來走去，看輪船怎樣開到此地。碼頭上有許多散步的人；他們聚集在這兒，手裡拿著花束，像是在準備迎接什麼人。這個裝束考究的雅爾塔人群有兩個特點清晰地映入人們的眼簾：上了年紀的太太們打扮得跟年輕女人一樣，人群裡將軍很多。由於海上起了風浪，輪船晚點了，直到太陽下山之後才來，而且在靠攏防波堤之前，又花了很長時間用來掉頭。安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜舉起帶柄望遠鏡瞧著輪船，瞧著乘客，好像在尋找熟人似的；等到她轉過身來對著古羅夫，她的眼睛亮了。她說了許多話，她的問話前言不搭後語，而且剛剛問過的問題，馬上就忘了問的是什麼，後來，在人群中還把帶柄望遠鏡也失落了。
　　裝束考究的人群已經走散，一個人也看不見了，風完全停住。可是古羅夫和安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜卻還站在原地，好像要等著看輪船上還有沒有人下來似的。安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜已經沉默下來，在聞一束花，眼睛沒有看古羅夫。
　　「天氣到傍晚好一點了。」他說，「可是現在我們到哪兒去呢？我們要不要坐一輛馬車到什麼地方去兜兜風？」
　　她一句話也沒有回答。
　　這時候他定睛瞧著她，忽然摟住她，吻她的嘴唇，花束的香味兒和潮氣向他撲來，他立刻戰戰兢兢地往四下裡看：有沒有人注意到他們？
　　「我們到您的旅館裡去吧。……」他輕聲說道。
　　兩個人很快地走了。
　　她的旅館房間裡悶熱，瀰漫著一股她在一家日本商店裡買來的香水的氣味兒。古羅夫瞧著她，心裡暗想：「在生活中會遇到多麼不同的人啊！」在他的記憶裡，保留著以往的一些無憂無慮、心地忠厚的女人的印象：她們由於愛情而高興，感激他帶來的幸福，雖然這幸福十分短暫；還保留著另一些女人的印象，例如他的妻子：她們在戀愛的時候缺乏真誠，說過多的話，裝腔作勢，感情病態。從她們的神情來看，好像這不是愛情，也不是情慾，而是一種更有意義的事情似的；另外還保留著兩三個女人的印象：她們長得很美，內心卻冷冰冰的，臉上忽而會掠過一種猛獸般的貪婪神情。她們具有固執的願望，想向生活索取和爭奪生活所不能給予她們的東西。這種女人年紀已經不輕，為人任性，不通情理，十分專橫，頭腦不聰明。每當古羅夫對她們冷淡下來，她們的美貌總是在他心裡引起憎惡的感覺。在這種時候，她們襯衣上的花邊兒在他的眼裡也好像魚鱗一樣了。可是眼前這個女人卻還是那麼靦腆，流露出缺乏經驗的年青人那種侷促不安的神情和別彆扭扭的心態；她給人一種驚慌失措的印象，好像忽然會有人出其不意地來敲門似的。安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜，這個「帶小狗的女人」，對待剛才發生過的事情態度有點特別，看得十分嚴重，好像這是她的墮落，至少看上去是這樣。而這種事情是奇怪的，不恰當的。她垂頭喪氣，無精打采，她的長頭髮憂傷地掛在臉頰的兩邊，帶著沮喪的樣子呆呆地出神，就好像聖像畫上那個正在懺悔的女人。
　　「這是不對的。」她說，「現在您要頭一個看不起我了。」
　　房間裡的桌子上有一個西瓜。古羅夫給自己切了一塊，慢慢地吃起來。在沉默中至少過了半個鐘頭。
　　安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜神態動人，從她身上散發出一種正派的、純樸的、生活閱歷很淺的女人那種純潔氣息。桌子上點著一支孤零零的蠟燭，幾乎照不清她的臉，不過還是看得出來她的心緒不佳。
　　「我怎麼能看不起你呢？」古羅夫問。「你自己都不知道在說什麼了。」
　　「求天主饒恕我吧！」她說著，眼睛裡滿含淚水。「這是可怕的。」
　　「你彷彿是在替自己辯白似的。」
　　「我還有什麼理由來替自己辯白呢？我是個下流的壞女人，我看不起自己，我根本就沒有替自己辯白的意思。我所欺騙的不是我的丈夫，而是我自己。而且不光是現在，我早就在欺騙我自己了。我丈夫也許是個誠實的好人，可是要知道，他是個奴才！我不知道他在整天幹些什麼事，在怎樣工作，我只知道他是個奴才。我嫁給他的時候才二十歲，好奇心煎熬著我，我巴望過好一點兒的日子，我對自己說：「一定有另外一種不同的生活。我一心想生活得好！我要生活，生活。」
　　「……好奇心燃燒著我，……這您是不會瞭解的。可是，我當著天主起誓，我已經管不住自己了，我起了變化，什麼東西也沒法約束我了。我就對丈夫說我病了，於是就到這裡來了。……到了這兒之後，我老是走來走去，像是著了魔，發了瘋。……現在呢，我變成了一個庸俗下賤的女人，沒有人會看得起我了。」古羅夫已經聽得乏味；那種天真的口氣，那種十分意外而大煞風景的懺悔惹得他不痛快。要不是她眼睛裡含著淚水，別人可能會認為她是在開玩笑或者在裝腔作勢。
　　「我不明白。」他輕聲說，「你到底想要什麼？」
　　她把臉埋在他的胸前，偎緊他。
　　「請您相信我的話，請您務必相信我的話，我求求您，……」她說，「我喜歡正直、純潔的生活，討厭犯罪，我自己也不知道我在幹什麼。俗話說：鬼迷心竅。現在我也可以這樣說自己：鬼迷了我的心竅。」
　　「得了，得了。……」他嘟噥著說。
　　他瞧著她那對不動的、驚恐的眼睛，吻她，親熱地柔聲細語。她漸漸地平靜下來，重又感到快活，於是兩個人都笑了。
　　後來，等他們走出去，堤岸上已經一個人影也沒有了。這座城市以及它那些柏樹顯得死氣沉沉，然而海水卻還在嘩嘩地響，拍打著堤岸。一條汽艇在海浪上搖擺，汽艇上的燈光睡意矇矓般地閃爍著。
　　他們雇到一輛馬車，就往奧列安達去了。
　　「剛才我在樓下前廳裡看到了你的姓，那塊牌子上寫著馮·季捷利茨。」古羅夫說，「你丈夫是德國人吧？」
　　「不，他祖父好像是德國人，然而他本人卻是東正教徒。」
　　到了奧列安達，他們坐在離教堂不遠處的一條長凳上，瞧著下面的海洋，沉默著。透過晨霧，雅爾塔朦朦朧朧，看不大清楚。白雲一動不動地停在山頂上；樹上的葉子紋絲不動，知了在叫；單調而低沉的海水聲從下面傳上來，訴說著安寧，訴說著那種在等待我們的永恆的安眠。當初此地還沒有雅爾塔，沒有奧列安達的時候，下面的海水就照這樣嘩嘩地響著，如今還在嘩嘩地響著，等我們不在人世的時候，它仍舊會這樣冷漠而低沉地嘩嘩響。這種恆久不變，這種對我們每個人的生和死完全的無動於衷，也許包藏著一種保證：我們會永恆地得救，人間的生活會不斷地前行，一切會不斷地趨於完善。古羅夫和一個在黎明時刻顯得十分美麗的年輕女人坐在一起，面對著這神話般的仙境，面對著這海，這山，這雲，這遼闊的天空，不由得平靜下來，心醉神迷，暗自思忖：如果往深處想一想，那麼實際上，這個世界上的一切都是美好的。惟獨在我們忘記生活的最高目標，忘記我們人類尊嚴的時候，所想的和所做的事情是例外的。
　　有個人，大概是守夜人吧，走過來，朝他們望了望，然後就走開了。這件小事顯得那麼神秘，而且也挺美好。可以看見有一條從費奧多西亞來的輪船進港了，船身被朝霞照亮，船上的燈火已經熄滅。
　　「草上有露水了。」沉默之後安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜說。
　　「是啊。該回去啦。」
　　於是他們回到城裡去了。
　　後來，他們每天中午都在堤岸上見面，一塊兒吃早飯，吃午飯，散步，欣賞海景。她抱怨睡眠不好，心跳得不穩；她老是提出同樣的問題，一會兒因為嫉妒而激動，一會兒又擔心他不再尊重她了。在廣場上的小公園或者大公園裡，每逢他們附近沒有行人的時候，他就會突然把她拉到自己身邊，熱烈地吻她。十足的愜意，這種在陽光下的接吻以及左顧右盼、生怕有人看見的擔憂，炎熱，海水的氣兒，再加上悠閒的、裝束考究的、心滿意足的人們不斷在他眼前閃過，這一切彷彿使他重獲了新生；他對安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜說：她多麼好看，多麼迷人，他狂熱地戀著她，一步也不肯離開她的身旁。而她卻常常呆呆地出神，老是要求他承認不尊重她了，一點也不愛她，只把她看做是一個庸俗的女人。幾乎每天傍晚，夜色深了，他們總要坐上馬車出城走一趟，到奧列安達去，或者到瀑布那兒去。這種遊玩兒總是很盡興，他們得到的收穫每一次都必定是美好而莊嚴的。
　　他們在等她的丈夫到此地來。可是他寄來一封信，通知她說他的眼睛出了大毛病，要求他的妻子趕快回家去。安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜慌亂起來。
　　「我走了倒好。」她對古羅夫說，「這也是命裡注定的。」
　　她坐上馬車走了，他去送她。他們走了一整天。等到她在一列特別快車的車箱裡坐好，等到第二遍鐘聲敲響，她對他說道：「好，讓我再看您一回……再看一眼。這就行了。」
　　她沒有哭，可是神情憂傷，彷彿害了病似的，她的臉在顫抖。
　　「我會想到您，……念到您。」她說，「願天主與您同在，祝您萬事如意。我有什麼不好的地方，您千萬別記著。我們永遠分別了，這也是應當的，因為我們根本就不該遇見。好，願天主與您同在。」
　　火車很快地開走了，車上的燈火漸漸消失，過一會兒，連轟隆聲也聽不見了。好像所有事物都串通一氣，竭力要趕快結束這場美夢，這種近乎瘋狂的美夢。古羅夫孤身一個人留在月台上，瞧著黑暗的遠方，聽著螽斯的叫聲和電報天線的嗡嗡聲，覺得自己好像剛剛醒過來一樣。他心裡暗想：如今在他的生活中又增添了一次奇遇，或者一次冒險。而這件事情也已經結束，如今只剩下回憶了。……他感動，悲傷，生出一股淡淡的懊悔心情；要知道這個他從此再也不能與之見面的年輕女人跟他過得並不幸福；他對她親熱，傾心，然而在他對她的態度裡，在他的口吻和溫存裡，仍舊微微地顯露出譏誚的陰影，顯露出一個年紀差不多比她大一倍的幸福男子的，帶有些許粗魯的傲慢。她始終說他心好，不平凡，高尚；顯然，在她的心目中，他跟他的本來面目不同，這樣說來，是他無意中欺騙了她。……在這裡，在車站上，已經有了秋意，傍晚很涼了。
　　「我也該回北方去了。」古羅夫走出站台，暗想：「是時候了！」
　　 三
　　在莫斯科，家家都已經是過冬的樣子了，爐子生上了火。早晨，孩子們準備上學，喝早茶的時候天還黑著，保姆點上了燈。嚴寒已經開始。下頭一場雪的時候，人們第一天坐上雪橇，看著白茫茫的大地，白皚皚的房頂，呼吸柔和而舒暢，身心會感到很愉快。這時候，不由得會想起青春的歲月。那些老菩提樹和樺樹因為蒙著厚霜而變得雪白，顯示出一種忠厚的神情，比柏樹和棕櫚樹更貼近人心。有它們在近處，人們就無意去想那些山巒和海洋了。古羅夫是莫斯科人，他在一個晴朗、寒冷的日子回到了莫斯科。等到他穿上皮大衣，戴上暖和的手套，沿著彼得羅夫卡走去。每逢星期六傍晚聽到教堂的鐘聲，不久以前的那次旅行和他所到過的那些地方，對他來說就失去了一切魅力。他漸漸沉浸在莫斯科的生活中，每天津津有味地閱讀三份報紙，嘴上卻說他不是本著原則來讀莫斯科報紙的。他已經喜歡到飯館、俱樂部去，喜歡去參加各種宴會、紀念會。有著名的律師和演員到他的家裡來，或者他在醫師俱樂部裡跟教授們一塊兒打牌，他就覺得光彩。他已經能夠吃完整份的用小煎鍋盛著的酸白菜燜肉了。
　　……他覺得，再過上個把月，安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜在他的記憶中就會被一層濃霧覆蓋，只有偶爾像別人那樣來到他的夢裡，現出她那動人的笑容罷了。可是一個多月過去，隆冬來了，而在他的記憶中一切還是很清楚，彷彿昨天他才跟安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜分手似的。而且這回憶越來越強烈，不論是在傍晚的寂靜中，孩子們的溫課聲傳到他的書房裡來，或者在飯館裡聽到抒情歌曲，聽到風琴的演奏聲，或者當暴風雪在壁爐裡哀叫，頓時，一切就都會在他的記憶裡復活：在防波堤上發生的事情、清晨以及山上的迷霧、從費奧多西亞開來的輪船、接吻等等。他久久地在書房裡來回走著，回想著，微微地笑著，然後回憶變成了幻想。在想像中，過去的事情就跟將來會發生的事情混淆起來了。安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜沒有到他的夢中來，可是她像影子似的跟著他到處走，一步也不放鬆他。他一閉上眼睛就看見她活生生地站在自己面前，顯得比本來的樣子還要美麗，年輕，溫柔；他自己也顯得比原先在雅爾塔的時候更漂亮。每到傍晚，她總是從書櫃裡，從壁爐裡，從牆角處瞅著他，他能夠聽見她的呼吸聲、她的衣服親切的窸窣聲。在街上，他的目光常常跟蹤著來往的女人，想找到一個跟她長得相像的人。……一種強烈的願望折磨著他，他渴望把他這段回憶跟什麼人聊一聊。然而，在家裡是不能談自己的愛情的；而在外面又找不到一個可以交談的人。跟房客們談是不行的，在銀行裡也不行。而且談些什麼呢？難道那時候他真的愛她嗎？難道在他跟安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜的關係中有什麼優美的，富於詩意的，或者有教育意義的，或者乾脆有趣味的地方嗎？他只能含含糊糊地談到愛情，談到女人。誰也猜不出他的用意在哪兒，只有他的妻子揚起兩道黑眉毛說：「你，德米特裡，可不配演花花公子的角色啊。」有一天夜裡，他同一個剛剛一塊兒打過牌的文官走出醫師俱樂部，忍不住說道：
　　「但願您知道我在雅爾塔認識了一個多麼迷人的女人！」
　　那個文官坐上雪橇，走了。可是突然回過頭來喊道：「德米特裡·德米特裡耶維奇！」
　　「什麼事？」
　　「方纔您說得對：那鱘魚肉確實有點臭味兒！」
　　這句話平平常常，可是不知什麼緣故惹得古羅夫冒火了，他覺得這句話不乾不淨，帶有侮辱性。多麼野蠻的習氣，都是些什麼人啊！多麼無聊的夜晚，多麼沒趣味的、平淡的白天啊！狂賭，吃喝，酗酒，反反覆覆講老套的話。不必要的工作和老套的談論佔去了人生中最美好的那部分時間，最美好的那部分精力，到頭來只剩下一種短了翅膀和缺了尾巴的生活，一種無聊的東西。想走也走不開，想逃也逃不脫，彷彿被關在瘋人院裡，或者監獄的強迫勞動隊裡似的！古羅夫通宵未眠，滿腔憤慨，然後頭痛了整整一天。第二天晚上他睡不穩，老是在床上坐起來，想心事，或者從這個牆角走到那個牆角。他討厭他的孩子，討厭銀行，不想到任何地方去，也不想說什麼話。在十二月的假期中，他準備好出門的行裝，對他的妻子說：他要到彼得堡去為一個年青人張羅一件什麼事情，可是他卻動身到斯城去了。去幹什麼呢？他自己也不大清楚。他想跟安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜見面，談一談，如果可能的話，就約她出來相會。
　　他早晨到達斯城，在一家旅館裡租了一個最好的房間。房間裡整個地板上鋪著灰色的軍用呢子，桌子上有一個蒙著灰塵的墨水瓶，瓶上雕著一個騎馬的人像，舉起一隻拿著帽子的手，腦袋卻被打掉了。看門人給他提供了必要的消息：馮·季捷利茨住在老岡察爾納亞街上他的私宅裡，這所房子離旅館不遠，他生活優裕，闊氣，自己有馬車，全城的人都知道他。看門人把他的姓念成「德雷迪利茨」了。古羅夫慢慢地朝老岡察爾納亞街走去，找到了那所房子。正好在那所房子的對面，佇立著一道灰色的圍牆，很長，牆頭上釘著釘子。「誰見到這樣的圍牆都會選擇逃跑的。」古羅夫看了看窗子，又看了看圍牆，暗想。他心裡盤算著：今天是機關不辦公的日子，她的丈夫大概在家。再者，闖進她的家裡去，攪得她心慌意亂，那總是不妥當的。要是送一封信進去，那封信也許就會落到她丈夫的手裡，那就可能把事情弄糟。最好是見機行事。他一直在街上圍牆旁邊走來走去，等機會。他看到一個乞丐走進大門，於是就有一些狗向他撲過來。後來，過了一個鐘頭，他聽見彈鋼琴的聲音，低微含混的琴聲傳了過來。大概是安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜在彈琴吧？前門忽然開了，一個老太婆從門口走出來，後面跟著那條熟悉的白毛獅子狗。古羅夫想叫那條狗，可是他的心忽然劇烈地跳動起來，他由於興奮而忘記那條獅子狗叫什麼名字了。他走來走去，越來越痛恨那堵灰色的圍牆，於是氣憤地暗想安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜可能忘了他，也許已經跟別的男人好上了。而這在一個從早到晚不得不瞧著這堵該死的圍牆的年輕女人的處境裡，原本是很自然的。他回到他旅館的房間裡，在一張長沙發上坐了很久，不知道該怎麼辦才好。然後是吃午飯，飯後睡了很久。
　　「這是多麼愚蠢，多麼惱人的事情啊。」他醒來之後，瞧著烏黑的窗子，暗想：現在已經是黃昏時分了。「不知為什麼我倒睡足了。那麼晚上我幹什麼好呢？」他坐在床上，床上鋪著一條灰色的、廉價的、象醫院裡那樣的毯子。他懊惱地挖苦自己說：「你去會那個帶小狗的女人吧。……去搞風流韻事吧。……你可能只會在這裡坐著。」
　　今天早晨他還在火車站的時候，有一張用很大的字寫的海報映入他的眼簾：英國作曲家瓊斯的輕歌劇《蓋伊霞》第一次公演。他想起了這件事，於是就坐車到劇院去了。
　　「她很可能去看第一次公演的戲。」他想。
　　劇院裡觀眾滿座。這裡如同一般的內地劇院一樣，枝形吊燈架的上邊瀰漫著一團迷霧，頂層樓座那邊吵吵嚷嚷；在開演以前，頭一排的當地大少爺們站在那兒，把手抄在背後；在省長包廂裡，頭一個座位上坐著省長的女兒，圍著毛皮圍脖。而省長本人卻謙遜地躲在簾幕後面，人們只看得見他的兩條胳膊。舞台上的大幕晃動著，樂隊調音化了很久的時間。在觀眾們走進來找位子的時候，古羅夫一直在熱切地用眼光搜尋著。
　　安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜也走進來了。她坐在第三排，古羅夫一眼瞧見她，他的心就縮緊了。他這才清楚地意識到如今對他來說，全世界再也沒有一個比她更親近、更寶貴、更重要的人了。她，這個嬌小的女人，混雜在內地的人群裡，一點兒出眾的地方也沒有，手裡拿著一隻俗氣的長柄望遠鏡，然而現在她卻佔據了他生命的全部，成為他的悲傷，他的歡樂，他目前所指望的唯一幸福；他聽著那個糟糕樂隊的演奏，聽著那粗俗、低劣的提琴聲，暗自想著：她多麼美啊。他思索著，幻想著。
　　跟安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜一同走進來、坐在她旁邊的是一個身量很高的年輕人，留著小小的絡腮鬍子，背有點駝；他每走一步路就晃一下頭，好像在不住地點頭致意似的。這人大概就是她的丈夫，也就是以前在雅爾塔，她在痛苦的心情中斥之為奴才的那個人吧？果然，他那細長的身材、他那絡腮鬍子、他那一小片禿頂，都有一種奴才般的卑順神態，他的笑容甜得膩人，他的紐扣眼上有個什麼學會的發亮的證章，活像是聽差的號碼牌子。
　　頭一次幕間休息的時候，她丈夫走出去吸煙，她留在位子上。古羅夫也坐在池座裡，這時候便走到她跟前去，勉強擠出笑臉，用發顫的聲音說：「您好。」
　　她看他一眼，臉色頓時發白，然後又戰戰兢兢地看他一眼，不相信自己的眼睛了；她雙手緊緊地握住扇子和長柄望遠鏡，分明是在極力支撐著，免得昏厥過去。
　　兩個人都沒有說話。她坐著，他呢，站在那兒，被她的窘態弄得驚慌失措，不敢挨著她坐下去。提琴和長笛開始調音，他忽然覺得可怕，似乎所有包廂裡的人都在瞧著他們。可這時候她卻站了起來，很快地往出口走去；他跟著她走，兩個人糊里糊塗地穿過過道，時而上樓，時而下樓，眼前晃過一些身穿法官制服、教師制服、皇室地產管理部門制服的人，一概佩帶著證章；又晃過一些女人和衣架上的皮大衣，穿堂風迎面吹來，送來一股煙頭的氣味。古羅夫心跳得厲害，心想：「唉，天主啊！幹嘛要有這些人，要有那個樂隊啊。……」這時候他突然記起那天傍晚，他在火車站上送走安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜的那一刻，對自己說：事情就此結束，他們從此再也不會見面了。可是，這件事情離著結束還遠得很呢！在一道標著「通往梯形樓座」的狹窄而陰暗的樓梯上，她站住了。
　　「您嚇了我一大跳！」她說著，呼吸急促，臉色仍舊蒼白，嚇慌了神。「哎，您真嚇了我一大跳。我幾乎死過去了。您來幹什麼？幹什麼呀？」
　　「可是您要明白，安娜，您要明白。……」他匆忙地低聲說「我求求您，您要明白。……」她帶著恐懼、哀求、熱切瞧著他，凝視著他，要把他的相貌更牢固地留在自己的記憶裡。
　　「我苦死了！」她沒有聽他的話，接著說，「我時時刻刻都在想您，只想您一個人，我完全是在對您的思念中生活著。我一心想忘掉，忘掉您，可是您為什麼到這兒來？為什麼呢？」
　　上邊，樓梯口有兩個中學生在吸煙，瞧著下面，可是古羅夫全不在意，把安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜拉到身邊來，開始吻她的臉、她的臉頰、她的手。
　　「您幹什麼呀，您幹什麼呀！」她驚恐地說著，把他從身邊推開。「我們兩個都瘋了。您今天就走，馬上就走。……我憑一切神聖的東西懇求您，央求您。……有人到這兒來了！」
　　下面有人走上樓來了。
　　「您一定得走。……」安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜接著小聲說。
　　「您聽見了嗎，德米特裡·德米特裡耶維奇？我會到莫斯科去找您的。我從來沒有幸福過，我現在不幸福，將來也絕不會幸福，絕不會，絕不會的！不要再給我增添痛苦了！我發誓，我會到莫斯科去的。現在我們分手吧！我親愛的，好心的人，我寶貴的人，我們分手吧！」
　　她握一下他的手，開始快步走下樓去，不住地回頭看他，從她的眼神裡看得出來，她也確實不幸福。……古羅夫站了一會兒，留心聽著，然後，等到一切聲音停息下來之後，他找到他那掛在衣帽架上的大衣，走出劇院去了。
　　 四
　　安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜真的動身到莫斯科去看他了。每過兩三個月她就從斯城去一趟。告訴她的丈夫說：她去找一位教授治她的婦科病，她的丈夫將信將疑。她到了莫斯科就在斯拉維揚斯基商場住下來，立刻派一個戴紅帽子的人去找古羅夫。
　　古羅夫得到消息就去看她，在莫斯科沒有一個人知道這件事。
　 有一回，那是冬天的一個早晨（前一天傍晚信差來找過他，可是沒有碰到他），他照例去看她。他的女兒與他同行，他打算先送她去上學，正好是順路。天上下著大片的濕雪。
　　「現在的氣溫是零上三度，然而卻下雪了。」古羅夫對他的女兒說，「可是要知道，這只是地球表面的溫度，大氣上層的溫度就完全不同了。」
　　「爸爸，為什麼冬天不打雷呢？」
　　關於這個問題他也解釋了一下。他一邊說著，一邊心裡暗想：現在他正趕去赴幽會，這件事情任何人都不知道，大概永遠也不會有人知道。他有兩種生活：一種是公開的，凡是想瞭解這種生活的人都看得見，都知道，充滿了傳統的真實和傳統的欺騙，跟他的熟人和朋友們的生活完全一樣；另一種生活則在暗地裡進行的。由於環境的一種奇特的、也許是偶然的巧合，凡是他認為重大的、有趣的、必不可少的事情，凡是他真誠地去做而沒有欺騙自己的事情，凡是構成他生活核心的事情，統統都是瞞著別人，暗地裡進行的；而凡是他弄虛作假，他用以偽裝自己、以遮蓋真相的外衣，例如他在銀行裡的工作、他在俱樂部裡的爭論、他的所謂「賤貨」、他帶著他的妻子去參加紀念會等等，卻統統都是公開的。他根據自己來判斷別人，就不相信他看見的事情，老是揣測著每一個人都在私密的掩蓋之下，就像在夜幕的遮蓋下一樣，過著他的真正的、最有趣的生活。每個人的私生活都包藏在秘密裡，也許，多多少少因為這個緣故，有文化的人才那麼萋萋惶惶地主張個人隱私應當受到尊重吧？
　　古羅夫把他的女兒送到學校之後，就朝斯拉維揚斯基商場走去。他在樓下脫掉皮大衣，上了樓，輕輕地敲門。安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜穿著他所喜愛的那件灰色連衣裙，由於旅行和等待而感到疲憊，從昨天傍晚起就在盼著他了。她臉色蒼白，望著他，沒有一點笑容，他剛走進去，她就撲在他的懷裡了。彷彿他們有兩年沒有見面似的，他們的接吻又深又長。
　　「哦，你在那邊過得怎麼樣？」他問。「有什麼新聞嗎？」
　　「等一等，我過一會兒告訴你。……我說不出話來了。」
　　她沒法說話，因為她哭了。她轉過臉去，用手帕摀住眼睛。
　　「好，就讓她哭一場吧，我坐下來等著就是。」他想著，在一個圈椅上坐了下來。
　　後來他搖鈴，吩咐送茶來，然後他喝茶。她呢，仍舊站在那兒，面對著窗子。……她哭，是因為激動，因為淒苦地體驗到他們的生活淪落到多麼悲慘的境地；他們只能偷偷地見面，瞞住外人，像竊賊一樣！難道他們的生活不是毀掉了嗎？
　　「得了，別哭了！」他說。
　　對他來說，事情是明顯的，他們這場戀愛還不會很快就結束，不知道什麼時候才會結束。安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜越來越深地依戀他，崇拜他；如果有人對她說這場戀愛早晚一定會結束，那在她來講是不可想像的，而且說了她也不會相信。
　 他走到她跟前，扶著她的肩膀，想跟她溫存一下，說幾句笑話。這時候他看見了自己在鏡子裡的影子。
　　他的頭髮已經開始花白了。他不由得感到奇怪：近幾年來他變得這樣蒼老，這樣難看了。他的手扶著的那個肩膀是溫暖的，正在顫抖著的。他對這個生命感到憐憫，這個生命還這麼溫暖，這麼美麗。可是大概已經臨近開始凋謝、枯萎的地步，像他的生命一樣了。她為什麼這樣愛他呢？他在女人們的心目中總是跟他的本來面目不同，她們愛他並不是愛他本人，而是愛一個由她們的想像所創造出來的、她們在生活裡熱切地追尋的人。後來她們發現自己錯了，卻仍舊愛他。她們跟他相好的時候，沒有一個人幸福過。歲月如流，以往他認識過一些女人，跟她們相好過，後來分手了，然而他一次也沒有愛過；把這種事情說成無論什麼都可以，單單不能說是愛情。
　　直到現在，他的頭髮開始花白了，他才平生第一次認真地、真正地愛上一個女人。
　　安娜·謝爾蓋耶芙娜和他相親相愛，像是十分貼近的親人，像是一對夫婦，像是知心的朋友。他們覺得他們的相遇似乎是命中注定的，他們不懂為什麼他已經娶了妻子，她也已經嫁了丈夫；他們彷彿是兩隻候鳥，一雌一雄，被人捉住，硬關在兩隻籠子裡，分開生活似的。他們互相原諒他們過去所做過的自覺羞愧的事情，原諒目前所做的一切，感到他們的這種愛情把他們兩個人都改變了。以前在憂傷的時候，他總是用他想得到的任何道理來安慰自己。可是現在，他顧不上什麼道理了，他只是感到深深的憐憫，一心希望自己誠懇，溫柔。……「別哭了，我的好人。」他說，「哭一會兒也就夠了。……現在讓我們來談談，想出一個什麼辦法來吧。」
　　後來他們商量了很久，談到應該怎樣做才能擺脫目前這種必須躲藏、欺騙、分居兩地、很久不能相見的處境，應該怎樣做才能從這種不堪忍受的桎梏中解放出來呢？
　　「應該怎樣做？應該怎樣做呢？」他問，抱住頭，「應該怎樣做呢？」
　　似乎再過一會兒，答案就可以找到。到那時候，一種嶄新的、美好的生活就要開始了。不過，兩個人心裡都明白：離著結束還很遠很遠，那最複雜、最艱難的道路現在才剛剛開始。