Hermann was extremely upset the whole day. Dining in an out-of-the-way tavern, he, contrary to his custom, drank a great deal, in hopes of stifling his inner agitation. But the wine fired his imagination still more. Returning home, he threw himself on the bed without undressing and fell fast asleep.
When he woke up, it was already night: his room was filled with moonlight. He glanced at the clock: it was a quarter to three. Sleep had left him; he sat on his bed and thought about the old countess’s funeral.
Just then someone peeked through his window from outside—and stepped away at once. Hermann paid no attention to it. A moment later he heard the door in his front room being opened. Hermann thought it was his orderly, drunk as usual, coming back from a night out. But he heard unfamiliar steps: someone was walking about, quietly shuffling in slippers. The door opened and a woman in a white dress came in. Hermann took her for his old wet nurse and wondered what could have brought her at such an hour. But the white woman, gliding about, suddenly turned up in front of him—and Hermann recognized the countess!
“I have come to you against my will,” she said in a firm voice, “but I have been ordered to fulfill your request. Three, seven, and ace, in that order, will win for you—but on condition that you do not stake on more than one card in twenty-four hours, and after that never play again for the rest of your life. I forgive you my death, on condition that you marry my ward Lizaveta Ivanovna…”
With those words she quietly turned around, went to the door, and disappeared, shuffling her slippers. Hermann heard the door in the front hall slam, and saw someone peek again through his window.
For a long time Hermann could not come to his senses. He went to the other room. His orderly was asleep on the floor; Hermann was barely able to wake him up. He was drunk as usual: there was no getting any sense out of him. The door to the front hall was locked. Hermann went back to his room, lit a candle, and wrote down his vision.
VI
“How dare you say
“Your Excellency, I said
Two fixed ideas cannot coexist in the moral realm, just as in the physical world two bodies cannot occupy the same place. Three, seven, ace—soon eclipsed the image of the dead old woman in Hermann’s imagination. Three, seven, ace—never left his head and hovered on his lips. Seeing a young girl, he said: “How shapely! A real three of hearts!” When asked, “What time is it?” he said, “Five minutes to the seven.” Every pot-bellied man reminded him of the ace. Three, seven, ace—pursued him in his sleep, assuming all possible shapes: the three blossomed before him as a luxuriant grandiflora, the seven looked like a Gothic gate, the ace like an enormous spider. All his thoughts merged into one—to make use of the secret that had cost him so dearly. He began to think about retiring from the army and traveling. He wanted to force enchanted Fortuna to yield up her treasure in the open gambling houses of Paris. Chance spared him the trouble.
A company of rich gamblers had been formed in Moscow, presided over by the famous Chekalinsky, who had spent all his life at cards and had once made millions, taking winnings in promissory notes and paying losses in ready cash. Long experience had earned him the trust of his comrades, and his open house, fine chef, affable and cheerful disposition the respect of the public. He came to Petersburg. Young men flocked to him, forgetting balls for cards and preferring the temptations of faro to the allurements of philandering. Narumov brought Hermann to him.
They walked through a succession of magnificent rooms, filled with courteous attendants. Several generals and privy councilors were playing whist; young men sat sprawled on the damask sofas, ate ice cream and smoked pipes. In the drawing room, at a long table around which some twenty players crowded, the host sat keeping the bank. He was a man of about sixty, of very dignified appearance; his head was covered with a silvery gray; his full and fresh face was a picture of good nature; his eyes sparkled, enlivened by a perpetual smile. Narumov presented Hermann to him. Chekalinsky shook his hand amicably, asked him not to stand on ceremony, and went back to dealing.
The round lasted a long time. There were more than thirty cards on the table. Chekalinsky paused after each stake to give the players time to make their arrangements, wrote down their losses, courteously listened to their requests, still more courteously unbent the superfluous corner bent down by a distracted hand. At last the round was over. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal another.
