Novels, Tales, Journeys полностью

Day was breaking. Lizaveta Ivanovna put out the burnt-down candle: a pale light filled her room. She wiped her tearful eyes and raised them to Hermann: he was sitting on the windowsill, his arms folded, frowning terribly. In that pose he bore an astonishing resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. The likeness even struck Lizaveta Ivanovna.

“How are you going to get out of the house?” Lizaveta Ivanovna said at last. “I thought of leading you by the secret stairway, but we would have to go past the bedroom, and I’m afraid.”

“Tell me how to find this secret stairway; I’ll let myself out.”

Lizaveta Ivanovna stood up, took a key from the chest of drawers, handed it to Hermann, and gave him detailed instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, unresponsive hand, kissed her bowed head, and left.

He went down the winding stairway and again entered the countess’s bedroom. The dead old woman sat turned to stone; her face expressed a deep calm. Hermann stopped in front of her, looked at her for a long time, as if wishing to verify the awful truth; finally he went into the study, felt for the door behind the wall-hanging, and began to descend the dark stairway, troubled by strange feelings. “Maybe by this same stairway,” he thought, “sixty years ago, at this same hour, into this same bedroom, in an embroidered kaftan, his hair dressed à l’oiseau royal,^*6 pressing his cocked hat to his heart, a lucky young fellow stole, who has long since turned to dust in his grave, and today the heart of his aged mistress stopped beating…”

At the foot of the stairway Hermann came to a door, unlocked it with the same key, and found himself in a through corridor which brought him out to the street.

V

That night the late baroness von W* * * appeared to me. She was dressed all in white and said to me: “How do you do, mister councilor!”

SWEDENBORG11

Three days after the fatal night, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hermann went to the * * * convent, where the funeral service was to be held over the body of the deceased countess. Though he felt no remorse, he still could not completely stifle the voice of conscience, which kept repeating to him: “You’re the old woman’s murderer.” Having little true faith, he had a great many superstitions. He believed that the dead countess could have a harmful influence on his life, and decided to attend her funeral in order to ask her forgiveness.

The church was full. Hermann was barely able to make his way through the crowd of people. The coffin stood on a rich catafalque under a velvet canopy. The deceased woman lay in it, her hands folded on her breast, in a lace cap and a white satin dress. Around her stood her household: servants in black kaftans with armorial ribbons on their shoulders and candles in their hands; relations in deep mourning—children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. No one wept; tears would have been une affectation. The countess was so old that her death could not surprise anyone, and her relations had long looked upon her as having outlived her time. A young bishop gave a funeral oration. In simple and moving words he presented the peaceful passing of the righteous woman, whose long life had been a quiet, sweet preparation for a Christian ending. “The angel of death found her,” said the orator, “vigilant in blessed thoughts and in expectation of the midnight Bridegroom.”12 The service was performed with sorrowful decorum. The relations went first to take leave of the body. Then the numerous guests went up to bow to the one who for so long had participated in their vain amusements. After them came the entire household. And finally the old housekeeper, who was the same age as the deceased. Two young girls led her by the arms. She was unable to bow down to the ground, and was alone in shedding a few tears as she kissed her mistress’s cold hand. After her, Hermann decided to approach the coffin. He bowed to the ground and for a few minutes lay on the cold floor strewn with fir branches. He finally got up, pale as the old woman herself, climbed the steps of the catafalque, and bent over…At that moment it seemed to him that the dead woman glanced mockingly at him, winking one eye. Hermann, hurriedly stepping away, stumbled and went crashing down on his back. They picked him up. At the same time, Lizaveta Ivanovna was carried out to the porch in a swoon. This episode disturbed the solemnity of the somber ritual for a few minutes. A dull murmur arose among those present, and a lean chamberlain, a close relation of the deceased, whispered in the ear of an Englishman standing next to him that the young officer was her natural son, to which the Englishman replied coldly: “Oh?”