 THE LADY OR THE TIGER by Frank R. Stockton. In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and with all of an authority so irresistible that at his will he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, and when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial, but whenever there was a little hitch and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight and crushed down uneven places. Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, and which by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured. But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of the king was built not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for the purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheater with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages was an agent of poetic justice in which the crime was punished, or virtue rewarded. This vast amphitheater with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages was an agent of poetic justice in which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance. When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, like notice was given that on a poignant day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena, a structure which well deserved its name, for although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who every barley-corner king knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who engrafted on every adopted form of human thought in action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism. When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal. A door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater. The opposite to him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased. He was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wells went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audience with bowed heads and downcast hearts winded slowly their homeward way mourning greatly that one so young and fair or so old and respected should have merited so dire a fate. But if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years in station, that his majesty could select among his fair subjects, and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection. The king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing matins, blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithelomic measure advanced to where the pair stood, side by side, and the wedding was promptly and cheerly solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by children, strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home. This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady. He opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of the tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinant. The accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and if innocent he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments of the king's arena. The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus the masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan, for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands? This semi-barbaric king had a daughter, as blooming as his most floored fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As as usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and loneliness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardour that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love affair moved unhappily for many months. Until one day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred. Never before had a subject dare to love the daughter of the king. In after years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were in no slight degree novel and startling. The tiger cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and relentless beast from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the arena, and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of course everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess. Neither he, she, nor anyone else thought of denying the fact. But the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess. The appointed day arrived. Some far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena, and crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors, those fateful portals so terrible in their similarity. All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him. What a terrible thing for him to be there. As the youth advanced into the arena he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king. But he did not think at all of that royal personage. His eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature, it is possible that Lady would not have been there. But her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event in the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than anyone who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done. She had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms that lay behind those doors stood the key to the tiger with its open front, and which waited the lady. Through these thick doors heavily curtain with skins on the inside it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold and the power of a woman's will had brought the secret to the princess. And not only did she know in which rooms stood the lady ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth. Should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him? And the princess hated her. Often she had seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together. It was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space. It may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was lovely. But she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess. And with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of holy barbaric ancestors. She hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door. When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat there, paler and wider than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing hidden to all other lookers on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery. The moment he looked upon her he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed. Then it was that quick and anxious glance asked the question, which? It was as plain to her as if he had shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash. It must be answered in another. Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena. He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating. Every breath was held. Every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation he went to the door on the right, and opened it. Now the point of the story is this. Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady? The more we reflect on this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart, which leads us through devious mazes of passion out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him? How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger! But how much often her had she seen him at the other door? How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth and torn her hair when she saw his start of raptious delight as he opened the door of the lady? How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph! When she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life, when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude and the wild ringing of the happy bells! When she had seen the priest, his joyous followers advance to the couple and make them man and wife before her very eyes, and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude in which her, one despairing shriek, was lost and drowned! Would it not be better for him to die at once and go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity? And yet that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood! Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and without the slightest hesitation she had moved her hand to the right. The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you. Which came out of the open door? The Lady or the Tiger? End of The Lady or the Tiger by Frank R. Stockton, read by Patricia Hayes. LIBERVOX'S PIGS by Ellis Parker Butler. Mike Flannery, the West Coat Agent of the Interurban Express Company, leaned over the counter of the express office and shook his fist. Mr. Morehouse, angry and red, stood on the other side of the counter, trembling with rage. The argument had been long and heated, and at last Mr. Morehouse had talked himself speechless. The cause of the trouble stood on the counter between the two men. It was a soap-box across the top of which was nailed a number of strips, forming a rough but serviceable cage. In it two-spotted guinea pigs were greedily eating lettuce leaves. Do as you like then, shouted Flannery, pay for them and take them, or don't pay for them and let them be. Rules is rules, Mr. Morehouse, and Mike Flannery's not going to be called down for breaking of them. But you everlastingly stupid idiot, shouted Mr. Morehouse, madly shaking a flimsy printed book beneath the agent's nose, can't you read it here, in your own plain printed rates? Pets, domestic, Franklin to Westcote, if properly boxed, twenty-five cents each. He threw the book on the counter and discussed, What more do you want? Aren't they pets? Aren't they domestic? Aren't they properly boxed? What? He turned and walked back and forth rapidly, frowning ferociously. Suddenly he turned to Flannery, and forcing his voice to an artificial calmness spoke slowly, but with intense sarcasm. Pets, he said, P-E-T-S, twenty-five cents each. There are two of them, one, two. Two times twenty-five are fifty. Can you understand that? I offer you fifty cents. Flannery reached for the book. He ran his hand through the pages and stopped at page sixty-four. And I don't take fifty cents. He whispered in mockery, Here's the rule for it. When the agent be in any doubt regarding which of two rates applies to a shipment, he shall charge the larger. The consignee may file a claim for the overcharge. In this case, in this case Mr. Morehouse, I be in doubt. Pets, them animals may be, and domestic they be, but pigs, I'm sure, they do be. And me rules say, plain as a nose on your face, pigs, Franklin to Westcote, thirty cents each. And Mr. Morehouse, by me, eryth-medical knowledge, two times thirty comes to sixty cents. Mr. Morehouse shook his head savagely. Nonsense, he shouted, confounded nonsense, I tell you, why, you poor, ignorant foreigner, that rule means common pigs, domestic pigs, not guinea pigs. Flannery was stubborn. Pigs is pigs, he declared firmly. Guinea pigs, or dego pigs, or Irish pigs, is all the same to the Interurban Express company and to Mike Flannery. The nationality of the pig creates no differentiality in the rate, Mr. Morehouse. It would be the same was they Dutch pigs or Russian pigs. Mike Flannery, he added, is here to tin to the express business and not to hold conversation with dego pigs in seventeen languages, for to discover be they Chinese or Tipperary by birth and nativity. Mr. Morehouse hesitated. He bit his lip and then flung out his arms wildly. Very well, he shouted, you shall hear of this, your president shall hear of this, it is an outrage. I have offered you fifty cents. You refuse it. Keep the pigs until you are ready to take the fifty cents, but by George, sir, if one hear of those pigs' heads is harmed I will have the law on you." He turned and walked out, slamming the door. Flannery carefully lifted the soap-box from the counter and placed it in a corner. He was not worried. He felt the peace that comes to a faithful servant who has done his duty and done it well. Mr. Morehouse went home raging. This boy, who had been awaiting the guinea pigs, knew better than to ask him for them. He was a normal boy and therefore always had a guilty conscience when his father was angry. So the boy slipped quietly around the house. There is nothing so soothing to a guilty conscience as to be out of the path of the Avenger. Mr. Morehouse stormed into the house. Where's the ink? He shouted at his wife as soon as his foot was across the door sill. Mrs. Morehouse jumped guiltily. She never used ink. She had not seen the ink, nor moved the ink, nor thought of the ink, but her husband's tone convicted her of the guilt of having borne and reared a boy, and she knew that whenever her husband wanted anything in a loud voice the boy had been at it. "'I'll find Sammy,' she said meekly. When the ink was found Mr. Morehouse wrote rapidly and he read the completed letter and smiled a triumphant smile. That will settle that crazy Irishman,' he exclaimed. When they get that letter he will hunt another job all right." A week later Mr. Morehouse received a long official envelope with the card of the Interurban Express Company in the upper left corner. He tore it open eagerly and drew out a sheet of paper. At the top it bore the number A6754. The letter was short. It said, Dear Sir, we are in receipt of your letter regarding rate on guinea pigs between Franklin and Westcote addressed to the President of this company. All claims for overcharge should be addressed to the Claims Department." Mr. Morehouse wrote to the Claims Department. He wrote six pages of choice sarcasm by tuperation and argument and sent them to the Claims Department. A few weeks later he received a reply from the Claims Department, attached to it was his last letter. Dear Sir," said the reply, your letter of the 16th instant addressed to this department, subject rate on guinea pigs from Franklin to Westcote, received. We have taken up the matter with our agent at Westcote and his reply is attached herewith. He informs us that you refuse to receive the consignment or to pay the charges. You have therefore no claim against this company, and your letter regarding the proper rate on the consignment should be addressed to our tariff department. Mr. Morehouse wrote to the tariff department. He stated his case clearly and gave his arguments in full, quoting a page or two from the Encyclopedia to prove the guinea pigs were not common pigs. With the care that characterizes corporations when they are systematically conducted, Mr. Morehouse's letter was numbered, okayed, and started through the regular channels. Duplicate copies of the Bill of Lating manifest, Flannery's receipt for the package, and several other pertinent papers were pinned to the letter, and they were passed to the head of the tariff department. The head of the tariff department put his feet on his desk and yawned. He looked through the papers carelessly. Miss Cain, he said to his stenographer, take this letter. Agent, Westcote, New Jersey, please advise why consignment referred to in attached papers was refused domestic pet rates. Miss Cain made a series of curves and angles on her notebook and waited with pencil poised. The head of the department looked at the papers again. Ah, guinea pigs, he said. Probably starved to death by this time. Add this to that letter. Give condition of consignment at present. He tossed the papers on to this stenographer's desk, took his feet from his own desk, and went out to lunch. When Mike Flannery received the letter he scratched his head. Give prison condition! He repeated thoughtfully. Now what do you think Clerksby wanted to know, I wonder? What condition is it? Dim pigs praise St. Patrick, do be in good health, so far as I know, but I never was no veterinary surgeon to dago pigs. Maybe them Clerks wants me to call in the pig doctor and have their pulses took. One thing I do know, however, is that they've glorious appetites for pigs of their soys. Eight! They'd ate the brass podlocks off of a barn door. If the patty pig, by the same token, ate as hearty as these dago pigs do, there'd be a famine in Ireland. To assure himself that his report would be up to date, Flannery went to the rear of the office and looked into the cage. The pigs had been transferred to a larger box, a dry goods box. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, he counted. Seven spotted and one all black. All whale and hearty and all eaten like rage and hippie potimuses. He went back to his desk and wrote, Mr. Morgan, head of tariff department, he wrote, Why do I say dago pigs is pigs, because they is pigs, and will be, till you say they ain't, which is what the rulebook says, Stop, you're jollying me, you know it as well as I do. As to health they are all well and hoping you are the same. P.S. There are eight now, the family increased all good eaters. P.S. I paid out so far two dollars for cabbage, which they like. Shall I put in bill for same, what? Morgan, head of the tariff department, when he received this letter, laughed. He read it again and became serious. By George, he said, Flannery is right. Pigs is pigs. I'll have to get authority on this thing. Meanwhile Miss Cain take this letter. Agent Westcote, New Jersey. Rule 83, General Instructions to Agents, clearly states that agents shall collect from consignee all costs of provender, etc., etc., required for livestock while in transit or storage. You will proceed to collect same from consignee. Flannery received this letter next morning, and when he read it he grinned. Proceed to collect, he said softly. How them clerks do like to be talking? Me proceed to collect two dollars and twenty-five cents off Mr. Morehouse. I wonder, do them clerks know Mr. Morehouse? I'll get it. Oh, yes. Mr. Morehouse, two and a quarter, please. Certainly, my dear friend Flannery, delighted. Not. Flannery drove the express wagon to Mr. Morehouse's door. Mr. Morehouse answered the bell. Ah-ha! He cried as soon as he saw it was Flannery. So you've come to your senses at last, have you? I thought you would. Bring the box in. I have no box, said Flannery coldly. I have a bill again, Mr. John C. Morehouse, for two dollars and twenty-five cents for cabbages, eaten by his Dego pigs. Would you wish to pay it? Pay? Cabbages! Gasp, Mr. Morehouse. Do you mean to say that two little guinea pigs—eight!—said Flannery. Papa and Mama and the six children—eight! For answer Mr. Morehouse slammed the door in Flannery's face. Flannery looked at the door reproachfully. I take it the consignee don't want to pay for them cabbages, he said. If I know signs of refusal, the consignee refuses to pay for one dang cabbage leaf and be hanged to me. Mr. Morgan, the head of the tariff department, consulted the President of the Inner Urban Express Company regarding guinea pigs as to whether they were pigs or not pigs. The President was inclined to treat the matter lightly. What is the rate on pigs and on pets? He asked. Pigs, thirty cents, pets, twenty-five, said Morgan. Then of course guinea pigs are pigs, said the President. Yes, agreed Morgan. I look at it that way too. A thing that can come under two rates is naturally due to be classed as the higher. But aren't guinea pigs pigs? Aren't they rabbits? Come to think of it, said the President. I believe they are more like rabbits. Sort of half-way station between pig and rabbit. I think the question is this, are guinea pigs of the domestic pig family? I'll ask Professor Gordon. He is authority on such things. Leave the papers with me. The President put the papers on his desk and wrote a letter to Professor Gordon. Unfortunately, the Professor was in South America, collecting zoological specimens, and the letter was forwarded to him by his wife. As the Professor was in the highest Andes, where no white man had ever penetrated, the letter was many months in reaching him. The President forgot the guinea pigs, Morgan forgot them, Mr. Morehouse forgot them, but Flannery did not. One half of his time he gave to the duties of his agency, the other half was devoted to the guinea pigs. Long before Professor Gordon received the President's letter, Morgan received one from Flannery. About them dago pigs, it said. What shall I do, they are great in family life. No race suicide for them. There are thirty-two now. Shall I sell them? Do you take this express office for a menagerie? Answer quick." Morgan reached for a telegraph blank and wrote, Agent Westcote, don't sell pigs! He then wrote Flannery a letter, calling his attention to the fact that the pigs were not the property of the company, but were merely being held during a settlement of a dispute regarding rates. He advised Flannery to take the best possible care of them. Flannery, letter in hand, looked at the pigs and sighed. The dry goods box cage had become too small. He boarded up twenty feet of the rear of the express office to make a large and airy home for them and went about his business. He worked with feverish intensity when out on his rounds, for the pigs required attention and took most of his time. Some months later, in desperation, he seized a sheet of paper and wrote one hundred sixty across it and mailed it to Morgan. Morgan returned it, asking for explanation. Flannery replied, There be now one hundred sixty of them dago pigs for heaven's sake! Let me sell off some! Do you want me to go crazy? What? Sell no pigs! Morgan wired. Not long after this the president of the express company received a letter from Professor Gordon. It was a long and scholarly letter, but the point was that the guinea pig was the kava aparoia, where the common pig was the genus Sus of the family Suide. He remarked that they were prolific and multiplied rapidly. They are not pigs, said the president, decidedly to Morgan. The twenty-five cent rate applies. Morgan made the proper notation on the papers that had accumulated in file A6754, and turned them over to the audit department. The audit department took some time to look the matter up, and after the usual delay, wrote Flannery that as he had on hand one hundred and sixty guinea pigs, the property of consignee, he should deliver them and collect charges at the rate of twenty-five cents each. Flannery spent a day herding his charges through a narrow opening in their cage, so he might count them. The department, he wrote when he had finished the count, you are way off, they may be one hundred and sixty guinea pigs once. But wake up, don't be a back-number. I've got even eight hundred. Now shall I collect for eight hundred or what? How about sixty-four dollars I paid out for cabbages?" It required a great many letters back and forth before the audit department was able to understand why the error had been made of billing one hundred and sixty instead of eight hundred, and still more time for it to get the meaning of the cabbages. Flannery was crowded into a few feet at the extreme front of the office. The pigs had all the rest of the room, and two boys were employed constantly attending to them. The day after Flannery had counted the guinea pigs, there were eight more added to his drove, and by the time the audit department gave him authority to collect for eight hundred, Flannery had given up all attempts to attend to the receipt or the delivery of goods. He was hastily building galleries around the express office, tier above tier. He had four thousand and sixty-four guinea pigs to care for. More were arriving daily. Immediately following its authorization, the audit department sent another letter, but Flannery was too busy to open it. They wrote another, and when they telegraphed, Error in guinea pig bill, collect for two guinea pigs, fifty cents, deliver all to consignee. Flannery read the telegram, and cheered up. He wrote out a bill as rapidly as his pencil could travel over paper, and ran all the way to the Morehouse home. At the gate he stopped suddenly. The house stared at him with vacant eyes. The windows were bare of curtains, and he could see into the empty rooms. A sign on the porch said, to let. Mr. Morehouse had moved. Flannery ran all the way back to the express office. Sixty-nine guinea pigs had been born during his absence. He ran out again and made feverish inquiries in the village. Mr. Morehouse had not only moved, but he had left Westcote. Flannery returned to the express office and found that two hundred and six guinea pigs had entered the world since he left it. He wrote a telegram to the audit department. Can't collect fifty cents for two dego pigs consignee has left town. Address unknown. What shall I do, Flannery? The telegram was handed to one of the clerks in the audit department, and as he read it he laughed. Flannery must be crazy. He ought to know that the thing to do is to return the consignment here, said the clerk. He telegraphed Flannery to send the pigs to the main office of the company at Franklin. When Flannery received the telegram he set to work. The six boys he had engaged to help him also set to work. They worked with a haste of desperate men, making cages out of soap boxes, cracker boxes, and all kinds of boxes, and as fast as the cages were completed they filled them with guinea pigs and expressed them to Franklin. Day after day the cages of guinea pigs flowed in a steady stream from Westcote to Franklin, and still Flannery and his six helpers ripped and nailed and packed, relentlessly and feverishly. At the end of the week they had shipped 280 cases of guinea pigs, and there were, in the express office, 704 more pigs than when they began packing them. Stop sending pigs, warehouse full! came a telegram to Flannery. He stopped packing only long enough to wire back. Can't stop! and kept on sending them. When the next train up from Franklin came one of the company's inspectors, he had instructions to stop the stream of guinea pigs at all hazards. As his train drew up at Westcote Station he saw a cattle car standing on the express company's siding. When he reached the express office he saw the express wagon backed up to the door. Six boys were carrying bushel baskets full of guinea pigs from the office and dumping them into the wagon. Inside the room Flannery, with his coat and vest off, was shoveling guinea pigs into bushel baskets with a coal scoop. He was winding up the guinea pig episode. He looked up at the inspector with a snort of anger. One wagon load more and I'll be quit of them, and never will you catch Flannery with no more foreign pigs on his hands. No, sir! They near was a death of me. Next time I'll know that pigs of whatever nationality is domestic pets and go at the lowest rate. He began shoveling again rapidly, speaking quickly between breaths. Rules may be rules, but you can't fool Mike Flannery twice with the same trick. When it comes to livestock, dang the rules! So long as Flannery runs this express office, pigs is pets, and cows is pets, and horses is pets, and lions and tigers and Rocky Mountain goats is pets, and the rate on dim is twenty-five cents. He paused long enough to let one of the boys put an empty basket in place of the one he had just filled. There were only a few guinea pigs left. As he noted their limited number, his natural habit of looking on the bright side returned. Well, anyhow, he said cheerfully, "'Tis not so bad as it might be. What if them dego pigs had been elephants?' End of Pigs Is Pigs, by Ellis Parker Butler. Thank you for listening. They hung their heads in a florist's window. The people of the town did not buy them, for they wanted roses, yellow, white, or crimson. But I, a lover, passing that way, did covet them for a woman that I knew, and straightway bought them. As I placed those poppies in a box on a bed of green moss, I heard them chuckle together with some surprise and much glee. What a kind fool he is, said the first poppy, to buy me and take me away from those disagreeable roses and other hateful blossoms in that damp, musty window. I heard, said the second poppy, one sweet lily of the valley, whispered to the others of its simple kind, that we would die where we were unnoticed. Undesired by anyone, how little it knew. How cool and green this bed of moss, cried the third poppy. It is a most excellent place to die upon. I am willing. I am happy. Nay, said the fourth poppy, you may die on her breast, if you will. She may take you up and put you into a jar of clear water. She may watch you slowly open your sleepy dark eye. She may lean over you, then let your passionate breath but touch her on the white brow. And she may tenderly thrust you into her whiter bosom, and quickly yearl herself, and you, to an all-powerful forgetfulness. She may twine me into her dark hair, and I will calm the throb of her blue-veined temples, and bring upon her a sleep and a forgetting. The fifth poppy trembled with joyful expectation, but said not a word. Toward the close of the next day I went to her, the woman that I knew, to whom I had sent the poppies. I trod the stairway softly, oh so softly, that led to her door. Shadows out of the unlighted hall danced about me, and the sounds of music, harp music, pleased me with a strain of remembered chords. She rose to greet me with provoking but delicious langer. She gave me the tips of her rosy fingers. Her lips moved as if in speech, but no words reached me. She barely smiled. In a priceless vase near the open window they held their heads in high disdain, those four red poppies who had gleefully chuckled and chatted together on the yesterday. But the fifth and silent poppy drooped upon her breast. I turned to go. She did not stay me. I stole to the door. Take us away with you, cried those four garulous poppies. We are willing to die in it once, if need be, but not here in her hateful presence. Take us away. But the poppy on her breast only drooped and drooped the moor, and said not a word. I opened the door. The shadows had fled. The hall was a blaze of light. The music had ceased. Only the noise of street below broke the silence. If thus you let me go, I will not return again, I said. The woman did not speak. Neither did she stir. But the poppy on her breast with drooping head up lifted softly cried, go quickly go and forget. I went down the broad stairway between a row of bright lights, a dazzling mockery. I went out into the night. I passed by a certain garden where red poppies grew. I leaned over the low wall. I buried my hot face among them. I crushed them in my hands and stained my temples with equivering blooms. But all to no purpose. They did not, could not, bring forgetfulness. I am thinking always of that woman, of those four red poppies, and of that one red poppy which drooped on her breast that night, and said to me, go quickly go and forget. End of Five Red Poppies by Douglas Shirley. Gemina, The Mountain Girl by F. Scott Fitzgerald. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This don't pretend to be literature. This is just a tale for red-blooded folks who want a story, and not just a lot of psychological stuff for analysis. Boy, you'll love it. Read it here, see it in the movies, play it on the phonograph, run it through the sewing machine. A Wild Thing. It was night in the mountains of Kentucky. Wild hills rose on all sides. Swift mountain streams flowed rapidly up and down the mountains. Gemina Tantrum was down at the stream, brewing whiskey at the family still. She was a typical mountain girl. Her feet were bare, her hands large and powerful hung down below her knees. Her face showed the ravages of work, although but sixteen she had for over a dozen years been supporting her aged pappy and mappy by brewing mountain whiskey. From time to time she would pause in her task, and, filling a dipper full of the pure invigorating liquid, would drain it off, then pursue her work with renewed vigor. She would place the rye in the vat, thresh it out with her feet, and in twenty minutes the completed product would be turned out. A sudden cry made her pause in the act of draining a dipper and look up. Hello! said a voice. It came from a man clad in hunting-booch reaching to his neck, who had emerged. Can you tell me the way to the Tantrum's cabin? Are youans from the settlement down there? She pointed her hand to the bottom of the hill, where Louisville lay. She had never been there, but once before she was born her great-grandfather, ol' Gore Tantrum, had gone into the settlements in the company of two marshals, and had never come back. So the Tantrums, from generation to generation, had learned to dread civilization. The man was amused. He laughed a light, tinkling laugh, the laugh of a Philadelphian. Something in the ring of it thrilled her. She drank off another dipper of whiskey. Where is Mr. Tantrum, little girl? He asked, not without kindness. She raised her foot and pointed her big toe toward the woods. Thar in the cabin behind those thar pines, ol' Tantrum, our my old man. The man from the settlements thanked her and strode off. He was fairly vibrant with youth and personality. As he walked along he whistled and sang and turned handsprings and flapjacks, breathing in the fresh, cool air of the mountains. The air around the still was like wine. Gemina Tantrum watched him entranced. No one like him had ever come into her life before. She sat down on the grass and counted her toes. She counted eleven. She had learned arithmetic in the mountain school. A Mountain Feud Ten years before, a lady from the settlements had opened a school on the mountain. Gemina had no money, but she had paid her way in whiskey, bringing a pail full to school every morning and leaving it on Miss LeFarge's desk. Miss LeFarge had died of delirium tremors after a year's teaching, and so Gemina's education had stopped. Across the still stream, still another still was standing. It was that of the doldrums. The doldrums and the tantrums never exchanged calls. They hated each other. Fifty years before, old Gem Doldrum and old Gem Tantrum had quarreled in the tantrum cabin over a game of slapjack. Gem Doldrum had thrown the king of hearts in Gem Tantrum's face, and old Tantrum, enraged, had felled old Doldrum with the nine of diamonds. Younger doldrums and tantrums had joined in, and the little cabin was soon filled with flying cards. Harstrum Doldrum, one of the younger doldrums, lay stretched on the floor, writhing in agony. The ace of hearts crammed down his throat. Gem Tantrum, standing in the doorway, ran through suit after suit, his face a light with fiendish hatred. Old mappy tantrums stood on the table, wetting down the doldrums with hot whiskey. Heck Doldrum, having finally run out of trumps, was backed out of the cabin, striking left and right with his tobacco pouch, and gathering around him the rest of his clan. Then they mounted their steers, and galloped furiously home. That night, old man Doldrum and his sons, vowing vengeance, had returned, put a tick-tock on the tantrum window, stuck a pin in the doorbell, and beaten a retreat. A week later, the tantrums had put cod liver oil in the doldrums still, and so from year to year the feud had continued, first one family being entirely wiped out, and then the other, the birth of love. Every day, little Gemina worked the still on her side of the stream, and Bosco Doldrum worked the still on his side. Sometimes, with automatic, inherited hatred, the feudists would throw whiskey at one another, and Gemina would come home smelling like a French tabledote. But now Gemina was too thoughtful to look across the stream. How wonderful the stranger had been, and how oddly he was dressed! In her innocent way, she had never believed that there were any civilized settlements at all, and she had put the belief in them down to the credulity of the mountain people. She turned to go up to the cabin, and, as she turned, something struck her in the neck. It was a sponge, thrown by Bosco Doldrum, a sponge soaked in whiskey from his still on the other side of the stream. Hi there, Bosco Doldrum! She shouted in her deep bass voice. Yo, Gemina Tantrum, gosh dang yo! He returned. She continued her way to the cabin. The stranger was talking to her father. People had been discovered on the Tantrum land, and the stranger, Edgar Edison, was trying to buy the land for a song. He was considering what song to offer. She sat upon her hands and watched him. He was wonderful. When he talked, his lips moved. She sat upon the stove and watched him. Suddenly there came a blood-curdling scream. The Tantrums rushed to the windows. It was the Doldrums. They had hitched their steers to trees and concealed themselves behind the bushes and flowers, and soon a perfect rattle of stones and bricks beat against the windows, bending them inward. Father, father, shrieked Gemina. Her father took down his slingshot from his slingshot rack on the wall, and ran his hand lovingly over the elastic band. He stepped to a loophole. The mappy Tantrum stepped to the coal-hole. A Mountain Battle The stranger was aroused at last. Furious to get at the Doldrums, he tried to escape from the house by crawling up the chimney. Then he thought there might be a door under the bed. But Gemina told him there was not. He hunted for doors under the beds and sofas, but each time Gemina pulled him out and told him there were no doors there. With anger he beat upon the door and hollered at the Doldrums. They did not answer him, but kept up their fuselage of bricks and stones against the windows. Old Pappy Tantrum knew that just as soon as they were able to affect an aperture, they would pour in and the fight would be over. Then Old Heck Doldrum, foaming at the mouth and expectorating on the ground, left and right, led the attack. The terrific slingshots of Pappy Tantrum had not been without their effect. A master's shot had disabled one Doldrum, and another Doldrum, shot almost incessantly through the abdomen, fought feebly on. Nearer and nearer they approached the house. We must fly, shouted the stranger to Gemina. I will sacrifice myself and bear you away. No! shouted Pappy Tantrum, his face begrimed. You stay here and fit on. I will bar Gemina away. I will bar Mappy away. I will bar myself away. The man from the settlements, pale and trembling with anger, turned to Ham Tantrum, who stood at the door throwing loophole after loophole at the advancing Doldrums. Will you cover the retreat? But Ham said that he too had Tantrums to bear away, but that he would leave himself here to help the stranger cover the retreat, if he could think of a way of doing it. Soon smoke began to filter through the floor and ceiling. Shem Doldrum had come up and touched a match to old Jaffet Tantrum's breath as he leaned from a loophole, and the alcoholic flames shot up on all sides. The whiskey in the bathtub caught fire. The walls began to fall in. Gemina and the man from the settlements looked at each other. Gemina, he whispered. Stranger, she answered. We will die together, he said. If I had lived, I would have taken you to the city and married you. With your ability to hold liquor your social status would have been assured. She caressed him idly for a moment, counting her toes softly to herself. The smoke grew thicker. Her left leg was on fire. She was a human alcohol lamp. Their lips met in one long kiss, and then a wall fell on them and blotted them out as one. When the Doldrums burst through the ring of flame, they found them dead where they had fallen, their arms around each other. Old Gem Doldrum was moved. He took off his hat. He filled it with whiskey and drank it off. They are dead, he said slowly. They hankered after each other. The fit is over now. We must not part them. So they threw them together into the stream, and the two splashes they made were as one. End of Jemina the Mountain Girl by F. Scott Fitzgerald Those Russian Violets by Douglas Shirley. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Larry Kaplan. There had been a brilliant reception at the house of Mrs. Adrienne Colburn in honor of her guest, a most attractive young woman from the East. The hours were brief from five to seven. I had gone late and left early, but while there had made an engagement with Miss Cunnington for the large ball to be given that night by the Bolton's. Miss Cunnington was a debutante. She had been educated abroad but had not lost either love of country or naturalness of manner. During the short but fiercely gay season from October to Christmas she had made many friends and found that two or three lovers were hard to handle with much credit to herself or any real happiness to them. She was not painfully conscientious nor was she an intentional trifler. Therefore she was good at that social game of lead on and hold off. Call at nine, she said, and I will be ready. But she was not ready at nine. The room where I waited was most inviting. There were several low couches laden with slumber robes and soft downy pillows, all at sweet enmity with insomnia. The ornaments were few but pleasing to the eye. Art and her handmade and good taste had decorated the walls. But there was a table best of all covered with good books and before it drawn in place an easy chair. An exquisite china lamp with yellow shade shed all the light that was needed. Everywhere there were femur and sign, touches that were delightful and unmistakable. But from somewhere that came a rich oriental odor it intoxicated me with its subtle perfume. I picked up after-dinner stories, Balzac, then a translation from Alfred de Moussé, an old novel by Wilkie Collins, The Guilty River. But still that mysterious perfume pervaded my senses and unfitted me for the otherwise tempting feast spread before me. I looked at the clock. It was nine thirty. I turned again to the table and carelessly reached out for a pair of dainty pale tan-colored gloves. Then I seized them eagerly and brushed them against my face. I had found the odor. The gloves were perfumed. They had been worn for the first time to the reception and had been thrown there into a plate of costly porcelain to await her ladyships, pleasure and due further and final service at the ball. They bore the imprint of her dainty fingers, and they were hardly cold from the touch and the warmth of her pretty white hands. They seemed, as they rested there, like something human, and if they had reached out toward me or even spoken a word of explanation regarding their highly perfumed selves I should indeed have been delighted, but neither surprised nor dismayed. But while the gloves did not speak, did not move, something else made mute appeal, and lost into that same beautiful plate hidden at first by the gloves was a bunch, a very small bunch of Russian violets. Evidently they had been worn to the reception, and while I was wondering if she would wear them to the ball I heard a light step, the rustle of silken skirts, and I knew that my wait was ended. She looked resplendent in evening dress, and swept toward me with a grace and charm, the ease of a woman of many seasons if instead of one hardly half finished. Here are your gloves, I said. She quickly drew them on and made them fast with almost a single movement. And your Russian violets, I added. She looked at them hesitatingly, but slightly shrugged her shoulders that were bare and gleamed in the half-glow of lamp and fire like moonlight on silvered meadow, and, turning, looked up at me and said, I am ready at last, pray pardon my long delay. While we were driving to the ball I asked her about the perfumed gloves with an odor like sandalwood or a tar of roses. She said they had been sent her from Paris, but they were in all the shops, were pleasant, but not rare. She said nothing about the violets, nor did I mention them again. Yielding to an impulse I had before we left the house thrust them into my waistcoat pocket when she had turned to take up the flowing silk of her train. All the evening I could catch the odor of those Russian violets that had been lightly worn, indifferently cast aside, and smothered by those artificial creatures the perfume gloves, for they were jealous of the natural fragrance and would have killed it if they could. All the evening I found myself nervously looking about for Russian violets, but there were none to be seen. Miss Bolton wore violets but not the deep, dark, wide, and sad-eyed violets known as the Russian. We had a curious talk driving home about the responsibility of human action, hardly the kind of conversation for after the ball. Miss Caddington astonished me by saying that she considered it useless to strive against the current of that which is called destiny, that it was better to yield gracefully than to awkwardly unsuccessfully struggle against the tide. I was deeply interested and asked her what she meant, what association of ideas had produced a speech. For instance, she said, if a man who fancies himself in love with me deliberately dictates a certain course of action, which I do not care to follow, and grows angry with me and finally breaks from the altogether, I certainly do not in any way feel responsible for any of his subsequent movements, am I right? In parting with her, and in answer to her question I made, as we also often make and reply to real questions, a foolish answer. I will tell you on New Year's night. I drove to the club, I was aglow with my enjoyment of the evening and wanted to talk it over with some congenial fellow. I found John Hardesty, a man that I had known for many years and who always seemed to enjoy my rambling accounts even of a ball. Hardesty was a quiet man, keenly observant of people, but himself free almost entirely from observation. In the financial world he held a clerical but valuable position. In the social world, being a gentleman and a club man, he was invited everywhere and being very punctilious about his calls and social obligations, he was always invited again. People in recounting those who had been at balls, dinners and the like always named the guests then added, and Hardesty, I believe. No one was ever very sure. He had no intimate friends and no enemies, he was not noticed enough to inspire dislike. But he was a man of positive opinion, which he generally kept to himself. He had subtle convictions, which he never used to unsettle others. I had known him in his old home, Virginia, so perhaps he felt more friendly toward me and talked more freely with me. He was a man of fine sentiment and a sensitive nature. He ought to have been a poet instead of a clerical expert. He was intensely fond of flowers, but never wore them. He used to say it was heresy for a man to wear a flower and sacrilege for a woman to let them die on her breast. When I told him about those Russian violets he seemed interested. But when I finished, astonished and grieved me by yawning in my face, and calmly stating that he considered the story trivial, far-fetched, and in short, stupid. There is, he said, only one thing for us to do, have a drink and go to bed, for the club closes in ten minutes. He ordered a small bottle of wine, something I had never seen him drink, and talked in a light, nonsensical strain, for him a most unusual thing. In telling the story I had drawn out the little bunch of Russian violets and placed them on the table. They were very much wilted, but the odor seemed stronger and sweeter than ever. When we poured for the night I forgot the violets. The next day, the 29th of December, I did not see John Hortesty, although he was at his office and in the club that night, and insisted on paying his account for December and his dues to April 1st. December 30th he was at his office, where he remained until midnight. He went to his room, which was near the club, and was found by his servant early the next morning, the last of the old year, dead. He was lying on the bed, dressed in it full length. His right hand clenched a pistol with one empty barrel. Only closed in his left hand they found a little bunch of faded violets. That was all. Not a line, not a scrap of paper to tell the story. His private letters had been burned, their ashes were heaped upon the hearth. There were no written instructions of any kind, there were no momentas, no keepsakes. Yes, there was a little Bible on the candle-stand at the head of the bed, but it was closed. On the fly-leaf, written in the trembling hand of an old woman, was his name, the word mother, and the date of a new year time in old Virginia when he was a boy. There was money more than enough to cause quarrel and heartburnings among a few distant relatives in another state, but there was absolutely no record of why he had, with his own hand, torn aside the veil which hangs between life and death. When the others were not there, I slipped into his room, and reverently enclosed his fingers, and read the story written there, written over and above those Russian violets which she had worn, for they were the same. There they remained. On the lint of his casket we placed a single wreath of Russian violets, but all the strength and all the sweetness came from those dim violets, faded but not dead, shut within the icy cold of his lifeless palm. Miss Caddington, and many of those who had known him, went to the new year reception the next night, and chattered and danced and danced and chattered. They spoke likely of the dead man, how much he was worth, the cut of his dress suit, the quiet simplicity of his funeral, the refusal of one minister to read the office for the dead and the charity of another, the one who did, and then they forgot him. That new year's night I sat in my study and thought of the woman who had worn those Russian violets, and asked me if she were right in her ideas about responsibility for human action. Nowadays I frequently see her. She was always charming, sometimes brilliant. Once I said to her, I have an answer for your question about responsibility. About responsibility, she said inquiringly, then quickly added, oh yes, that nonsense we talk coming home from the Bolton ball. Never mind your answer. I am sure it is a good one, and perhaps clever, but it is hardly worthwhile going back so far and for so little. Do you think so? Are you going to the athletic club, German, next week? No, I am sorry, for as you are one of the few men who do not dance, I always miss a chat with you. Miss Caddington goes everywhere. Her gowns are exquisite, and her flowers are always beautiful and rare, because out of season. But neither in season nor out of season does she ever wear a bunch, no matter how small, of those Russian violets. End of those Russian violets by Douglas Shirley. The Queen of Spades by Alexandra S. Pushkin. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. There was a card party at the rooms of Narimov 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 so pardon it. And how did you fare, sir, and ask the host? Oh, I lost as usual. I must confess that I'm unlucky. I play marindole. 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 Herman, 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 than Herman, but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous. Herman is a German. He's economical, that is all, observed Tomsky. But if there's one person that I can't understand, it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Bedotovna, 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 80 not punting, said Naramov? Then you do not know the reason why? No, really, haven't the faintest idea. About 60 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 a pharaoh. 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 to work 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's 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 didn't know what to do. She had shortly before become acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count Saint Germain, about whom so many marvelous 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, Saint 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 anyone speaks disrespectfully of him. My grandfather knew that Saint 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 colors, the barbarity of her husband, and ended by declaring that her whole hope depended upon his friendship and amiability. Saint 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's 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 Saint Germain. He pleased to listen to me. Then he revealed 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 offhand 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 one, Seneca, set of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest possible time. And my grandmother recovered every farthing that she had lost. Your chance, said one of the guests. A tale observed Herban. Perhaps they were marked cards, said a third. I don't think so, replied Tomsky gravely. What, said Naramov? 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 all, 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've heard from my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich. Count Ivan Ilyich. And he assured me, on his honor, that it was true. The late Chplitsky, the same who died in poverty after having squandered millions, once lost in his youth, about 300,000 rubles to Zorik, 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 Chplitsky. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after another. At the same time, exacting from him a solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as long as he lived, Chplitsky then went to his victorious opponent and then began a fresh game. On the first card, he staked 50,000 rubles in one, Sonica. He doubled the stake in one again, till it last. By pursuing the same tactics, he won back more than he had lost. But it's time to go to bed. It's a quarter of six already. And indeed it was already beginning to dawn. The young men emptied their glasses and then took leave of each other. Part two. 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 hairpins, 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 70 years before, and made as long and as careful a toilette as she would have done 60 years previously. Near the window, at her embroidery frame, sat a young lady, her ward. Good morning, Grimama, sat a young officer entering the room. Bonjour, mademoiselles. Grimama, 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 directly to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at bees yesterday? Yes, everything went off very pleasantly and dancing was kept up until five o'clock. How charming you let Skia was. But my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn't she like a grandma of 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. The old Countess heard the news with the greatest indifference. Dead, said she, and I didn't know it. We were appointed maids of honor at the same time and we were presented to the Empress and the Countess for the hundredth time related to a grandson, one of her anecdotes. Come, Paul, said she, when she had finished her story, help me to get up. Lasanka, 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 was the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Countess? Asked Lizaveta Ivanovna and a whisper. Naramov, 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 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, dear, pray send me one. Goodbye, grandmother, I'm in a hurry. Goodbye, Lizaveta Ivanovna. What made you think that Naramov was in the engineers? And Tomsky left the boudoir. Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone. She laid aside her work and began to look out 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 get ready at once. I will do so this moment, replied the young lady hastening into the anti-room. The servant entered and gave the Countess some books from Prince Paul, Alexandrovich. Tell him that I am much obliged to him, said the Countess. Lizaveta, Lizaveta, where are you running to? I'm going to dress. There's 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's 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's the carriage? The carriage is ready, said Lizaveta, looking out into the street. How is it that you're not dressed, said the Countess? I must always wait for you. It's intolerable, my dear. Lizah 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 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, I have a nobna that I am waiting for her. Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak on. At last you're here, said the Countess. But why such an elaborate twilight? When do you intend to captivate? What sort of weather is it? It seems rather windy. Know your ladyship. It's very calm, replied the valet. You never think of what you're talking about. Open the window. So it is, windy and bitterly cold. Unharness the horse. 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, said Dante. In a 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. But she was capricious, like a woman who had been spoiled 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 on 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 ballroom. 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 recognize the faces of people. Her numerous domestics, growing fat and old in her antechamber 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 answerable for the weather or the state of the pavement. The salary was attached to her post, but she very rarely received it. Although she was expected to dress like everyone else, that is to say, like very few indeed, in the society she played the most pitiable role. Everybody knew her and nobody paid attention to her. At ball 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, honored 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 wearsome 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, and a feeble in a copper candlestick. One morning, this was about two days after the evening party, described at the beginning of the 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 coquettin' 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 the window, she perceived the officer again. 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 seeded herself in the carriage. On returning home, she hastened to the window. The officer was standing in his custom 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 with 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 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 Narimov was not an engineer, she regretted that by her thoughtless question, she had betrayed her secret to the volatile Tomsky. Herman was the son of a German who had become a naturalized Russian, and from whom he had inherited a small capital. Being firmly convinced of the necessity of preserving his independence, Herman 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 really 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 eras of young men. Thus, though a gangster at heart, he never touched a card, for he considered his position did not allow him, as he said, to risk the necessary in 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, 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 favor, become her lover, but all that will take time, and she's 87 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 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, they stepped out onto 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. Herman stopped. Whose house is this? He asked the watchman at the corner. The countess, A's, replied the watchman. Herman 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 do-cats. He played one card after another, winning in uninterruptedly, and then he gathered up the gold and filled his pockets with the notes. When he woke up late the next morning, he sighed over the loss of his imaginary wealth, and then sallying out into the count, 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, Herman saw a fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That moment decided his fate. Part three. 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 that 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, the 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. Went 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. 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. 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 behavior 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 advisor. 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 be either too inviting or too cold and decisive. And at last she succeeded in writing a few lines with which she felt satisfied. I am convinced she wrote that your intentions are honorable and that you do not wish to offend me by any imprudent behavior. 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 Herman 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. Herman hasted forward, picked it up and then repaired to a confectioner shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope he found inside at his own letter and Lizaveta's reply. He had expected this and he returned home his mind deeply occupied with its 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 recognized Herman's handwriting. You've made a mistake, my dear, said she, this letter's not for me. Oh yes, it's for you, replied the girl, smiling very knowingly. Have the goodness to read it. Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Herman 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 dearest 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 Herman 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. Herman 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 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 11, walk straight upstairs. If you meet anybody in the anti-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 maid servants will all be together in one room. On leaving the anti-room, turn to the left and walk straight on until you reach the countess's bedroom. In the bedroom behind the 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. Herman trembled like a tiger as he waited for the appointed time to arrive. At 10 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 on large flakes. The lamps emitted a feeble light. The street was deserted. From time to time, a sledge drawn by a sorry-looking act passed by on the lookout for a belated passenger. Herman was enveloped in a thick overcoat and felt neither wind nor snow. At last, the countess's carriage drew up. Herman 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 screen door. The windows became dark. Herman began walking up and down near the deserted house. At length, he stopped under a lamp and glanced at his watch. It was 20 minutes past 11. He remained standing under the lamp. His eyes fixed upon the watch, impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to pass. At half past 11 precisely, Herman ascended the steps of the house and made his way into the brightly illuminated vestibule. The porter was not there. Herman hastily ascended the staircase, opened the door of the anti-room and saw a footman sitting asleep in an antique chair by the side of a lamp. It was a light firm step. Herman passed by him. The drawing room and dining room were in darkness, but a feeble reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in the anti-room. Herman 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 manner of about 40 years of age in a bright green uniform with star upon his breast. The other, a beautiful young woman with an aquiline nose, forehead curls and a rose in her pouted hair. In the corners stood porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, dining room clocks from the workshop of the celebrated LeFroy, band boxes, roulettes, fans, and the various playthings for the amusement of ladies that were involved at the end of the last century when Mount Golfier's balloons and Mesmer's magnetism with the rage. Herman 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 ladder 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. Time passed slowly, all was still. The clock in the drawing room struck 12. The strokes echoed through the room one after the other and everything was quiet again. Herman 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 bustled within the house. The servants were running hither and thither. There was a confusion of voices and the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chambermaids entered the room and they were shortly afterwards followed by the Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair. Herman peeped through a chink. The Zaveta Ivanova 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 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. Herman was a witness of their pugnant mysteries of her toilette. Alas, the Countess was in her nightcap and dressing gown and in this costume, more suitable to her age, she appeared less hideous and deformed. Like all the 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 bankruptcy of mine 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 to 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've only come to ask a favor of you.' The old woman looked at him in silence as if she had not heard what he had said. Herman 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 ensure the happiness of my life,' continued Herman. "'And it will cost you nothing. I know that you can name three cards in order.' Herman 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's no joking about the matter,' replied Herman angrily. "'Remember Chplitsky, whom you helped to win?' The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features expressed strong emotion, but they quickly resumed their firmer immobility. "'Can you not name me these three winning cards?' continued Herman. The Countess remained silent. Herman continued. "'But whom are you preserving your secret? Your grandsons? They're 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 and 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 trembling, or waited her reply. The Countess remained silent. Herman 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 newborn child, if any human feeling has ever entered into your breast, I entreat you but the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all this most sacred in life not to reject my prayer, reveal to me your secret of what use is it to you. Maybe 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. Herman rose to his feet. "'You old hag,' he explained, grinding his teeth, "'then I will make you answer.' But 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 and enter this childish nonsense at Herman 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. Herman perceived that she was dead. Pot four. Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her bald 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 Herman 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 letters. She had never spoken to him, had never heard his voice and had never heard him spoken of until that evening. It was strange to say that very evening at the ball, Tomsky, being peaked 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 in endless Mazurka with her. During the whole 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 learned 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 Herman. Lizaveta made no reply, but her hands and feet lost all sense of feeling. This Herman, 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've become. I have a headache. But what did this Herman or whatever his name is tell you? Herman is very much dissatisfied with his friend. He says that in his place, he would act very differently. I even think that Herman 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, but there's nothing that he, three ladies approaching him with the question, Uble-U-Regret, interrupted the conversation, which had become so tantalizingly interesting to Lizaveta. The lady chosen by Tomsky was the princess Pauline herself. She succeeded in affecting a reconciliation with him during the numerous turns of the dance, after which he conducted her to a chair. On returning to his place, Tomsky thought no more either of Herman or Lizaveta. She longed to renew the interrupted conversation, but the Miserca 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 Herman entered. She shuddered. Where were you? She asked in a terrified whisper. In the old Countess's bedroom replied Herman, I've just left her. The Countess is dead. My God, what do you say? And I'm afraid, added Herman, 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. Herman sat down by the window near her and related all that had happened. Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all these 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. The poor girl had been nothing, but the blind tool of a robber, of the murderer or her aged benefactress. She wet bitter tears of agonized repentance. Herman gazed at her in silence. His art 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. And her monster said Lizaveta at last. I did not wish for her death, replied Herman. 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 Herman. He was sitting near the window with his arm crossed and a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude, he bore a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance struck Lizaveta even. 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'm afraid. Tell me how to find this secret staircase. I'll go along. Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Herman and gave him the necessary instructions. Herman 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 tranquility. Herman 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, built 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, 60 years ago, they may have glided in an embroidered coat with his hair dressed. El oazo, royal. Impressing to his heart is three cornered hat, some young gallant who has long been moldering in the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress had only today ceased to beat. At the bottom of this staircase, Herman found a door which he opened with a key and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the street, part five. Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning, Herman repaired to the convent of, with last honors 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 an old woman. In spite of his entertaining, very little religious belief, he was exceedingly superstitious in 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 Herman made his way through the crowd. The coffin was placed upon a rich catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin. The deceased Countess lay within it with her hands crossed upon her breast, with a lace cap upon her head and dressed in a white satin robe. Above the catafalque stood the members of the 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 un-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. Would pass 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 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 the strength enough to bow down to the ground. She merely shed a few tears and kissed the cold hand of the 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 that same moment, Lizaveta Ivanovna was born 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 in 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, and 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 quartered, 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 recognized the Countess. I've come to you against my wish, she said in a firm voice, but I have been ordered to grant your request. Three, seven, eights will win for you if played in succession, but only on these conditions that you do not play more than one card in 24 hours and you never play again during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death on a condition that you marry my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna. But these words she turned around very quietly, walked with a shuffling gate towards the door and disappeared. Hermann heard the street door open and shut and again he saw someone looking at him through the window. For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He then rose up and entered the 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 for him. The street door was locked. Hermann returned to his room and lit his candle and wrote down all the details of his vision. Part six. Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two bodies can occupy one in the same place in the physical world. Three, seven, eights soon drove out of Hermann's mind the thought of the dead countess. Three, seven, eights 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 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 game-sters presided over by the celebrated Chekolinsky who had passed all his life at the card table and had massed millions, accepting bills of exchange for his winnings and paying his losses and 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 for getting balls for cards and performing the emotions of furlough to the seductions of flirting. Narimov conducted hermon to Chekolinsky's residence. It passed through a suite of magnificent rooms filled with attentive domestics. The place was crowded. Generals and privy counselors were playing at wist. Young men were lolling carelessly upon the velvet-covered sofas, eating ices and smoking pipes. In the drawing room with the head of a long table around which were assembled about a score of players sat the master of the house keeping his bank. He was a man of about 60 years of age, of a very dignified appearance. His head was covered with silvery white hair, his full floored countenance expressed a good nature, and his eyes twinkled with a perpetual smile. Narimov introduced hermon to him. Chekolinsky shook him by the hand in a friendly manner, requesting him not to stand on ceremony and then went on dealing. The game occupied some time. On the table played more than 30 cards. Chekolinsky 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 players' hands had a chance to bend. At last the game was finished. Chekolinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again. Will you allow me to take a cards at Herman, stretching out his hand from behind a stout gentleman who was punting? Chekolinsky smiled and bowed silently as a sign of acquiescence. Narimov laughingly congratulated Herman on his abjuration of that abstentation from cards which he had practiced for so long a period and wished him a lucky beginning. Stakes at Herman, writing some figures with a chalk on the back of his card, how much, asked the baker, contracting the muscles of his eyes, excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly. 47,000 rubles, replied Herman. At these words, every head in the room turned suddenly around and all eyes were fixed on Herman. He's taken leave of his senses, thought Narimov. Allow me to inform you, Chekolinsky, with his eternal smile, that you were playing very high. Nobody here has ever staked more than 275 rubles at once. Very well, replied Herman, but do you accept my card or not? Chekolinsky 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. Herman drew from his pocket a banknote and handed it to Chekolinsky, who, after examining it in a cursory manner, placed it on Herman's card. He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up and on the left a three. I have when, said Herman, showing his card. A murmur of astonishment rose among the players. Chekolinsky frowned, but the smile quickly returned to his face. Do you wish me to settle with you, he said to Herman. If you please, replied the latter. Chekolinsky drew from his pocket a number of banknotes and paid at once. Herman took up his money and left the table. Narimov could not recover from his astonishment. Herman drank a glass of lemonade and returned home. The next evening, he again repaired to Chekolinsky's. The host was dealing. Herman walked up to the table. The punters immediately made room for him. Chekolinsky greeted him with a gracious bow. Herman waited for the next deal. Took a card and placed upon it his 47,000 rubles, together with his winnings of the previous evening. Chekolinsky began to deal. A nave turned up on the right a seven on the left. Herman showed his seven. It was a general exclamation. Chekolinsky was evidently ill at ease, but he countered out the 94,000 rubles and handed them over to Herman. Pocketed them in the coolest manner possible and immediately left the house. The next evening, Herman appeared again at the table. Everyone was expecting him. The generals and the privy counselors left their wist in order to watch such extraordinary play. The young officers quitted their sofras and even the servants crowded into the room. All pressed around Herman. The other players left off punting and patient to see how it would end. Herman stood at the table and prepared to play alone against the pale, but still smiling, Chekolinsky. Each opened a pack of cards. Chekolinsky shuffled. Herman took a card and covered it with a pile of banknotes. It was like a duel. Deep silence reigned around. Chekolinsky began to deal. His hands trembled. On the right, a queen turned up and on the left an ace. Ace has won, cried Herman, showing his card. Your queen has lost the Chekolinsky politely. Herman started, instead of an ace, to lay before him the queen of spades. He could not believe his eyes, nor could he understand how he'd 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. Chekolinsky gathered up his winnings. Sometime, Herman remained perfectly motionless. When at last he left the table, there was a general commotion in the room. Splendently punted at the players. Chekolinsky shuffled the cards afresh and the game went on as usual. Herman went out of his mind and is now confined to room number 17 with the Apokov hospital. He never answers any questions, but he constantly mutters with usual 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. The end of the Queen of Spades by Alexandra Esbushkin.