 INTRODUCTION OF BEST RUSSIAN SHORT STORIES Conceive the joy of a lover of nature who, leaving the art galleries, wanders out among the trees and wildflowers and birds that the pictures of the galleries have sentimentalized. It is some such joy that the man who truly loves the noblest in letters feels when tasting for the first time the simple delights of Russian literature. French and English and German authors too occasionally offer works of lofty simple naturalness, but the very keynote to the whole of Russian literature is simplicity, naturalness, voraciousness. Another essentially Russian trait is the quite unaffected conception that the lowly are on a plane of equality with the so-called upper classes. When the Englishman Dickens wrote with his profound pity and understanding of the poor, there was yet a bit of remoteness, perhaps even a bit of character in his treatment of them. He showed their sufferings to the rest of the world, with a behold how the other half lives. The Russian writes of the poor, as it were, from within, as one of them, with no eye to theatrical effect upon the well-to-do. There is no insistence upon peculiar virtues or vices. The poor are portrayed just as they are, as human beings like the rest of us. A democratic spirit is reflected, breathing a broad humanity, a true universality, an unstudied generosity that proceed not from the intellectual conviction that to understand all is to forgive all, but from an instinctive feeling that no man has the right to set himself up as a judge over another, that one can only observe and record. In 1834 two short stories appeared, The Queen of Spades by Pushkin and The Cloak by Gogol. The first was a finishing off of the old outgoing style of romanticism. The other was the beginning of a new and characteristically Russian style. We read Pushkin's Queen of Spades, the first story in the volume, and the likelihood is we shall enjoy it greatly. But why is it Russian, we ask? The answer is, it is not Russian. It might have been printed in an American magazine over the name of John Brown. But now take the very next story in the volume, The Cloak. Ah, you exclaim, a genuine Russian story. Surely you cannot palm it off on me over the name of Jones or Smith. Why? Because The Cloak for the first time strikes that truly Russian note of deep sympathy with the disinherited. It is not yet wholly free from artificiality, and so it is not yet typical of the purely realistic fiction that reached its perfected development in Tergenev and Tolstoy. Though Pushkin heads the list of those writers who made the literature of their country world famous, he was still a romanticist in the universal literary fashion of his day. However, he already gave strong indication of the peculiarly Russian genius for naturalness or realism, and was a true Russian in his simplicity of style, in no sense an innovator but taking the cue for his poetry from Byron, and for his prose from the romanticism current of that period, he was not in advance of his age. He had a revolutionary streak in his nature, and his ode to liberty, and other bits of verse, and his intimacy with the Decemberist rebel shows. But his youthful fire soon dies down, and he has found it possible to accommodate himself to the life of a Russian high-functionary and courtier under the severe despot Nicholas I, though to be sure he always hated that life. For all his flirting with revolutionarism, he never displayed great originality or depth of thought. He was simply an extraordinarily gifted author, a perfect versifier, a wondrous lyricist, and a delicious raconteur endowed with a grace, ease of power of expression that delighted even the exacting artistic sense of Tergenev. To him aptly applies the dictum of Socrates, not by wisdom to the poet's right poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration. I do not mean to convey that as a thinker Pushkin is to be despised, nevertheless it is true that he would occupy a lower position in literature, did his reputation depend upon his contributions to thought, and not upon his value as an artist. We are all descended from Gogol's cloak, said a Russian writer, and Dostoyevsky's novel Poor People, which appeared ten years later is, in a way, merely an extension of Gogol's shorter tale. In Dostoyevsky indeed the passion for the common people and the all-embracing, all-penetrating pity for suffering humanity reached their climax. He was a profound psychologist, and delved deeply into the human soul, especially in its abnormal and diseased aspects. Between scenes of heart-rending abject poverty, injustice and wrong, and the torments of mental pathology, he managed almost to exhaust the whole range of human woe, and he analyzed this misery with an intensity of feeling and a painstaking regard for the most harrowing details that are quite upsetting to normally constituted nerves. Yet all the horrors must be forgiven him because of the motive inspiring them, and overpowering love and the desire to induce an equal love in others. It is not horror for horror's sake, not a literary tour de force as in Po, but horror for a high purpose, for purification through suffering, which was one of the articles of Dostoyevsky's faith. Following as a corollary from the love and pity for mankind that made a leading element in Russian literature is the passionate's search for the means of improving the lot of humanity, a fervent attachment to social ideas and ideals. A Russian author is more ardently devoted to a cause than an American short story writer to a plot. This in turn is but a reflection of the spirit of the Russian people, especially of the intellectuals. The Russians take literature perhaps more seriously than any other nation. To them books are not a mere diversion. They demand that fiction and poetry be a true mirror of life and be of service to life. A Russian author to achieve the highest recognition must be a thinker also. He need not necessarily be a finished artist. Everything is subordinated to two main requirements, humanitarian ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of the marvelous simplicity of Russian literary art. Before the supreme function of literature, the Russian writer stands odd and humbled. He knows he cannot cover up poverty of thought, poverty of spirit and lack of sincerity by rhetorical tricks or verbal cleverness. And if he possesses the two essential requirements, the simplest language will suffice. These qualities are exemplified at their best by Turgenev and Tolstoy. They both had a strong social consciousness. They both grappled with the problems of human welfare. They were both artists in the larger sense, that is in their truthful representation of life. Turgenev was an artist also in the narrower sense, in a keen appreciation of form. Thoroughly occidental in his tastes, he sought the regeneration of Russia and radical progress along the lines of European democracy. Tolstoy, on the other hand, sought the salvation of mankind in a return to the primitive life and primitive Christian religion. The very first work of importance by Turgenev, a sportsman's sketches, dealt with the question of serfdom and it wielded tremendous influence in bringing about its abolition. Almost every succeeding book of his, from Rudin, through Fathers and Sons, to Virgin Soil, presented vivid pictures of contemporary Russian society with its problems, the clash of ideas between the old and the new generations, and the struggles, the aspirations, and the thoughts that engrossed the advanced youth of Russia, so that his collected works form a remarkable literary record of the successive movements of Russian society in a period of preparation, fraught with epochal significance, which culminated in the overthrow of Tsarism and the inauguration of a new and true democracy, marking the beginning, perhaps, of a radical transformation the world over. The greatest writer of Russia, that is Turgenev's estimate of Tolstoy, a second Shakespeare, was Flourbert's enthusiastic outburst. The Frenchman's comparison is not wholly illuminating. The one point of resemblance between the two authors is simply in the tremendous magnitude of their genius. Each is a colossus. Each creates a whole world of characters from kings and princes and ladies to servants and maids and peasants. And how vastly divergent the angle of approach. Anna Karenina may have all the subtle womanly charm of an Olivia or a Portia, but how different her trials. Shakespeare could not have treated Anna's problems at all. Anna could not have appeared in his pages except as a sinning Gertrude, the mother of Hamlet. Shakespeare had all the prejudices of his age. He accepted the world as it is with its absurd moralities and conventions and institutions and social classes. A grave digger is naturally inferior to a lord, and if he is to be presented at all, he must come on as a clown. The people are always a mob, the rabble. Tolstoy is the revolutionist, the iconoclast. He has the completest independence of mind. He utterly refuses to accept established opinions just because they are established. He probes into the right and wrong of things. His is a broad, generous, universal democracy. His is a comprehensive sympathy. His an absolute incapacity to evaluate human beings according to station, rank, or profession, or any standard, but that of spiritual worth. In all this, he was a complete contrast to Shakespeare. Each of the two men was like a creature of a higher world, possessed of supernatural endowments. Their omniscience of all things human, their insight into the hidden most springs of men's actions appears miraculous, but Shakespeare makes the impression of detachment from his works. The works do not reveal the man, while in Tolstoy the greatness of the man blends with the greatness of the genius. Tolstoy was no mere oracle uttering profundities he what not of. As the social, religious, and moral tracks that he wrote in the latter period of his life are instinct with the literary beauty of which he never could divest himself, and which gave an artistic value even to his sermons, so his earlier novels show a profound concern for the welfare of society, a broad humanitarian spirit, a bigness of soul that included prince and pauper alike. Is this extravagant praise that let me echo William Dean Howells? I know very well that I do not speak of Tolstoy's books in measured terms, I cannot. The Russian writers so far considered have made valuable contributions to the short story, but with the exception of Pushkin, whose reputation rests chiefly upon his poetry, their best work generally was in the field of the long novel. It was the novel that gave Russian literature its preeminence. It could not have been otherwise, since Russia is young as a literary nation, and did not come of age until the period at which the novel was almost the only form of literature that counted. If, therefore, Russia was to gain distinction in the world of letters, it could be only through the novel. Of the measure of her success there is perhaps no better testimony than the words of Matthew Arnold, a critic certainly not given to overstatement. The Russian novel, he wrote in 1887, has now the vogue and deserves to have it. The Russian novelist is master of a spell to which the secret of human nature, both what is external and internal, gesture and manner no less than thought and feeling willingly make themselves known. In that form of imaginative literature, which in our day is the most popular and the most possible, the Russians at the present moment seem to hold the field. With the strict censorship imposed on Russian writers, many of them who might perhaps have contended themselves with expressing their opinions in essays were driven to conceal their meaning under the guise of satire or allegory, which gave rise to a peculiar genre of literature, a sort of editorial or essay done into fiction, in which the satirist, Saltikov, a contemporary of Turgenev and Dostoevsky, who wrote under the pseudonym Shnedin, achieved the greatest success and popularity. It was not, however, until the concluding quarter of the last century, that writers like Korlenko and Garshin arose, who devoted themselves chiefly to the cultivation of the short story. With Anton Chekhov, the short story assumed a position of importance alongside the larger works of the great Russian masters. Gorky and Andreyev made the short story do the same for the service of the active revolutionary period in the last decade of the nineteenth century, down to its temporary defeat in 1906, that Turgenev rendered in his series of larger novels for the period of preparation. But very different was the voice of Gorky, the man sprung from the people, the embodiment of all the accumulated wrath and indignation of centuries of social wrong and oppression, including the gentlemanly tones of the cultured artist Turgenev. Like a mighty hammer his blows fell upon the decaying fabric of the old society. His was no longer a feeble despairing protest. With the strength and confidence of victory he made onslaught upon onslaught on the old institutions until they shook and almost tumbled. And when reaction celebrated its short live triumph and gloom settled again upon his country, and most of his co-fighters withdrew from the battle in despair, some returning to the old-time Russian mood of hopelessness, passivity and apathy, and some even backsliding into wild orgies of literary debauchery, Gorky never wavered, never lost his faith and hope, never for a moment was untrue to his principles. Now with the revolution victorious he has come into his right, one of the most respected, beloved, and picturesque figures in the Russian democracy. Kuprin, the most facile and talented short writer next to Chekhov, has on the whole kept well to the best literary traditions of Russia, though he has frequently wandered off to extravagant sex-themes, for which he seems to display as great a fondness as Artsybachev. Semyonov is a unique character in Russian literature, a peasant who had scarcely mastered the most elementary mechanics of writing when he penned his first story, but that story pleased Tolstoy, who befriended and encouraged him. His tales deal altogether with peasant life in country and city, and have a life-likeness and artlessness, a simplicity striking even in a Russian author. There is a small group of writers detached from the main current of Russian literature who worship at the shrine of beauty and mysticism, of these Solagob has attained the highest reputation. Rich as Russia has become in the short story Anton Chekhov still stands out as the supreme master, one of the greatest short-story writers of the world. He was born in Tyganarok, in the Ukraine, in 1860, the son of a peasant surf who succeeded in buying his freedom. Anton Chekhov studied medicine, but devoted himself largely to writing, in which he acknowledged his scientific training was of great service. Though he lived only forty-four years dying of tuberculosis in 1904, his collected works consist of sixteen fair-sized volumes of short stories and several dramas besides. A few volumes of his works have already appeared in English translation. Critics, among them Tolstoy, have often compared Chekhov to Mopassant. I find it hard to discover the resemblance. Mopassant holds a supreme position as a short-story writer, so does Chekhov, but there it seems to me the likeness ends. The chill wind that blows from the atmosphere created by the Frenchman's objective artistry is by the Russian commingled with the warm breath of a great human sympathy. Mopassant never tells where his sympathies lie, and you don't know, you only guess. Chekhov does not tell you where his sympathies lie, either, but you know all the same. You don't have to guess, and yet Chekhov is as objective as Mopassant. In the chronicling of facts, conditions, and situations, in the reproduction of characters, he is scrupulously true, hard, and inexorable. But without obtruding his personality, he somehow manages to let you know that he is always present, always at hand. If you laugh, he is there to laugh with you. If you cry, he is there to shed a tear with you. If you are horrified, he is horrified too. It is a subtle art by which he contrives to make one feel the nearness of himself for all his objectiveness, so subtle that it defies analysis, and yet it constitutes one of the great charms of his tales. Chekhov's works show an astounding resourcefulness and versatility. There is no monotony, no repetition. Neither an incident nor a character are any two stories alike. The range of Chekhov's knowledge of men and things seems to be unlimited, and he is extravagant in the use of it. Some great idea which many a writer would consider sufficient to expand into a whole novel he disposes of in a story of a few pages. Take, for example, Vonka, apparently but a mere episode in the childhood of a nine-year-old boy, while it is really the tragedy of a whole life in its tempting glimpses into a past environment and ominous forebodings of the future, all contracted into the space of four or five pages. Chekhov is lavish with his inventiveness. Apparently it cost him no effort to invent. I have used the word inventiveness for lack of a better name. It expresses but lamely the peculiar faculty that distinguishes Chekhov. Chekhov does not really invent, he reveals. He reveals things that no author before him has revealed. It is as though he possessed a special organ which enabled him to see, hear, and feel things of which we other mortals did not even dream the existence. Yet when he lays them bare we know that they are not fictitious, not invented, but as real as the ordinary familiar facts of life. This faculty of his play in on all conceivable objects, all conceivable emotions no matter how microscopic, endows them with life and a soul. By virtue of this power, this step, an uneventful record of peasants traveling day after day through flat, monotonous fields, becomes instinct with dramatic interest, and its 125 pages seems all too short. And by the virtue of the same attribute we follow with breathless suspense the minute description of the declining days of a great scientist who feels his physical and mental faculties gradually ebbing away. A tiresome story, Chekhov calls it, and so it would be without the vitality conjured into it by the magic touch of this strange genius. Divination is perhaps a better term than invention. Chekhov divines the most secret impulses of the soul, sends out what is buried in the subconscious, and brings it up to the surface. Most writers are specialists. They know certain strata of society, and when they venture beyond, their step becomes uncertain. Chekhov's material is only delimited by humanity. He is equally at home everywhere. The peasant, the laborer, the merchant, the priest, the professional man, the scholar, the military officer, and the government functionary. Gentile or Jew, man, woman, or child, Chekhov is intimate with all of them. His characters are sharply defined individuals, not types. In almost all his stories, however short, the men and women and children who play a part in them come out as clear, distinct personalities. Ariadne is as vivid a character as Lily, the heroine of Suderman's Song of Songs. And Ariadne is but a single story in a volume of stories. Who that has read the darling can ever forget her, the woman who had no separate existence of her own, but thought the thoughts felt the feelings and spoke the words of the men she loved. And when there was no man to love anymore, she was utterly crushed until she found a child to take care of and to love. And then she sank her personality in the boy, as she had sunk it before in her husbands and lover, become a mere reflection of him, and was happy again. In the compilation of this volume I have been guided by the desire to give the largest possible representation to the prominent authors of the Russian short story, and to present specimens characteristic of each. At the same time the element of interest has been kept in mind. And in a few instances, as in the case of Korolenko, the selection of the story was made with a view to its intrinsic merit and striking qualities rather than as typifying the writer's art. It was, of course, impossible in the space of one book to exhaust all that is best, but to my knowledge the present volume is the most comprehensive anthology of the Russian short story in the English language, and gives a fair notion of the achievement in that field. All who enjoy good reading, I have no reason to doubt, will get pleasure from it, and if, in addition, it will prove an assistance to American students of Russian literature, I shall feel that the task has been doubly worth the while. Everything is subordinated to two main requirements, humanitarian ideals and fidelity to life. This is the secret of the marvelous simplicity of Russian literary art. Thomas Seltzer. End of introduction by Thomas Seltzer. Chapter 1 of Best Russian Short Stories. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Of Best Russian Short Stories. Edited and Compiled by Thomas Seltzer. The Queen of Spades by Alexander Pushkin. 1. There was a card party at the rooms of Narimov of the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed away imperceptibly. 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 to 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. Observe Tomsky. But if there's one person that I can't understand, it is my grandmother. They count as 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 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 steward to my grandmother. He dreaded her like fire, but on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went out of his mind. He calculated the various sums she had lost and pointed out to her that in six months, she had spent half a million francs that neither their Moscow nor Saratov estates were in Paris and finally refused point blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear and slept by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The next day, she sent for her husband, hoping that this domestic punishment had produced an effect upon him, but she found him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she entered into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be able to convince him by pointing out to him that there are debts and debts and that there'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 is another way of getting out of your difficulty. You can win back your money. But my dear Count replied my grandmother, I tell you that I haven't any money left. Money is not necessary, replied Saint Germain. He pleased to listen to me. Then he revealed to her a secret for which each of us would give a good deal. The young officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, puffed away for a moment, and then continued. That same evening, my grandmother went to Versailles, to the Jeu de la Reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank. My grandmother excused herself in an 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 won, Sonica, set of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest possible time, and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she had lost. Their chance at one of the guests, a tale, observed Herbin. Perhaps they were marked cards at a third. I don't think so, replied Tomsky gravely. What, said Narimov, 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, 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, Soneko. 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, too. 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 bruge, 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, a ward. Good morning, Grimama, a young officer entering the room. Bonjour, mademoiselle Lise. 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 grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By the way, she must be very old, the Princess Daria Petrovna. How do you mean old, cried Tomsky thoughtlessly? She died seven years ago. The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young officer. He then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of the death of any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lips. 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 100th 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's my snuff box? In the Countess, where the three maids went behind a screen to finish her toilette. Tomsky was left alone with the young lady. Who was the gentleman you wished 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 days 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. A 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? Whom 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. Never think of what you're talking about. Open the window. So it is, windy and bitterly cold, unharnessed 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's 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 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 entered chamber and servants' hall did just as they liked, and vied with each other and 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 100 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 wear some 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 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 after which she looked out again the young officer was still standing in the same place. Not being in the habit of coquettain 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. Elizabeth 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 those 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 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 if the old countess would but reveal her secret to me if she would only tell me the names of the three winning cards why should I not try my fortune? I must get introduced to her and win her 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 at seven fold and procure myself ease and independence using 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 the quippages 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 in a 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 further 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 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 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 does the matter with you my dear she was claimed have you taken leave of your senses or what is it do you not hear me or understand what I say heaven be thanked I am still in my right mind and speak plainly enough Lizaveta Ivanovna did not hear her on returning home she ran to her room and drew the letter out of her glove it was not sealed Lizaveta read it the letter contained a declaration of love it was tender respectful and copied word for word from a German novel but Lizaveta did not know anything of the German language and she was quite delighted for all that the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy for the first time in her life she was entering into secret and confidential relations with a young man his boldness alarmed her she reproached herself for her imprudent 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 her 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'd 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 he couldn't have 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 it 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 eleven 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 a screen you will find two doors the one on the right leads to a cabinet which the countess never enters the one on the left leads to a corridor at the end of which is a little winding staircase this leads to my room Herman trembled like a tiger as he waited for the appointed time to arrive at ten o'clock in the evening he was already in front of the countess's house the weather was terrible the wind blew with great violence the sleety snow fell 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 lengthy stop 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 and 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 with 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 about 40 years of age in a bright green uniform and with star upon his breast the other a beautiful young woman with an aquiline nose forehead curls and a rose in her powdered hair in the corners stood porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses dining room clocks from the workshop of the celebrated LeFroy band boxes, roulette, fans and the various play things for the amusement of ladies that were involved at the end of the last century with Montgolfier'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 always 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 and in military 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 chamber maids entered the room and they were shortly afterwards followed by the countess who more dead than alive sank into a vaulted armchair Herman peeped through a chink Lizaveta 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 old people in general the countess suffered from sleeplessness having undressed she seated herself at the window in a vaulted 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 mind and looking at her one would have thought that the rocking of her body was not a voluntary action of her own but was produced by the action of some concealed galvanic mechanism suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable expression the lips ceased to tremble the eyes became animated before the countess to an unknown man to not be alarmed for heaven's sake to 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 Czaplicki when you helped to win the countess became visibly uneasy her features expressed strong emotion but they quickly resumed their former immobility can you not name me these three winning cards continued Herman the countess remained silent Herman continued for 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 in want even though he had a demon at a 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 awaited 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 by 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 uses 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 that Herman taking hold of her hand I ask you for the last time you tell me the names of your three cards or will you not the countess may no reply Herman perceived that she was dead End of the Queen of Spades by Alexander Pushkin part one chapter two of best Russian short stories this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Best Russian short stories edited and compiled by Thomas Seltzer The Queen of Spades by Alexander Pushkin part two four Lizaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room still in her bald dress lost in deep thought on returning home she'd 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 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 Missurka 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 chests 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 in 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 uregret 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 Herman or Lizaveta she longed to renew the interrupted conversation but the Mazzurka 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 you're a 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 his 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 into 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 felt behind the tapestry for the door and then began to descend the dark staircase filled with strange emotions down this very staircase thought he perhaps coming from the very same room and at this very same hour sixty years ago they may have glided in an embroidered coat with his hair dressed a loazo royal and pressing 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 the staircase Herman found a door which he opened with a key and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the street 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 and believing that the dead countess might exercise an evil influence on his life he resolved to be present at her obsequies in order to implore her pardon the church was full it was with difficulty that 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 lace cap upon her head and dressed in a white satin robe above the catafalque stood the members of the household servits 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 soon 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 a mis-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 Herman 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 that moment it seemed to him that the dead woman darted a mocking look at him and winked with one eye Herman 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 port 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 Herman 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 Herman paid no attention to this incident a few moments afterwards he heard the door of his ante room open Herman 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 Herman 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 Herman 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 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 Herman heard the street door open and shut and again he saw someone looking at him through the window for a long time Herman 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 Herman returned his room, lit his candle and wrote down all the details of his vision 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 Herman'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 Chekalinsky 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 in his open house his famous cook in his agreeable and fascinating manners gained for him the respect of the public he came to St. Petersburg the young man 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 herman to Chekalinsky'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 sixty 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 herman to him Chekalinsky 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 there were more than thirty cards Chekalinsky paused after each throw in order to give the players time to arrange their cards and note down their losses listened politely to their requests and more politely still put straight the corners of cards that some players' hands had a chance to bend at last the game was finished Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again will you allow me to take the cards at herman stretching out his hand from behind a stout gentleman who was punting Chekalinsky 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 forty seven thousand roubles 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 so Chekalinsky with his eternal smile that you were playing very high nobody here has ever staked more than two hundred and seventy five roubles at once very well replied Herman but you accept my card or not Chekalinsky bowed and token of consent I only wish to observe city that although I have the greatest confidence my friends I can only play against ready money my own part I am quite convinced that your word is sufficient before 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 bank note and handed it to Chekalinsky 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 Chekalinsky 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 Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of bank notes and paid it once Herman took up his money and left the table Naramov could not recover from his astonishment Herman drink a glass of lemonade and returned home the next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky's the host was dealing Herman walked up to the table the punters immediately made room for him Chekalinsky 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 Chekalinsky began to deal a knave turned up on the right a seven on the left Herman showed his seven it was a general exclamation Chekalinsky 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 sofas and even the servants crowded into the room all pressed around Herman the other play is left off punting impatient to see how it would end Herman stood at the table and prepared to play alone against the pale but still smiling Chekalinsky each opened a pack of cards Chekalinsky shuffled Herman took a card and covered it with a pile of banknotes it was like a duel deep silence reigned around Chekalinsky began to deal his hands trembled on the right a queen turned up and on the left an ace ace has won cried Herman showing his card your queen has lost the Chekalinsky politely Herman started instead of an ace they 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 sees with terror Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings sometime Herman remained perfectly motionless when at last he left the table there was a general commotion in the room splendidly punted at the players Chekalinsky 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 Apakov hospital he never answers any questions but he constantly mutters with usual rapidity three seven ace three seven clean Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man a son of the former steward of the old countess he's 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 end of the queen of spades by Alexander Pushkin part two chapter three of best Russian short stories this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Nolafitian best Russian short stories edited and compiled by Thomas Seltzer the cloak by Nikolai Gogol part one in the department of but it is better not to mention the department the touchiest things in the world are departments regiments courts of justice in a word all branches of public service each individual nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person quite recently a complaint was received from a district chief of police in which he plainly demonstrated that all the imperial institutions were going to the dogs and that the czar's sacred name was being taken in vain and in proof he appended to the complaint a romance in which the district chief of police is made to appear about once in every ten pages and sometimes in a downright drunken condition therefore in order to avoid all unpleasantness it will be better to designate the department in question as a certain department so in a certain department there was a certain official not a very notable one it must be allowed short of stature somewhat pockmarked red-haired and mullied with the bald forehead wrinkled cheeks and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine the saint petersburg climate was responsible for this as for his official rank with us russians the rank comes first he was what is called a perpetual titular counselor over which as is well-known some writers make merry and crack their jokes obeying the praiseworthy custom of attacking those who cannot bite back his family name was bashmachkin this name is evidently derived from bashmach shoo but when at what time and in what manner is not known his father and grandfather and all the bashmachkins always were boots which were resold two or three times a year his name was a khaki a kakeyevich it may strike the reader as rather singular and far-fetched but he may rest assured that it was by no means far-fetched and that the circumstances were such that it would have been impossible to give him any other this was how it came about a khaki a kakeyevich was born if my memory fails me not in the evening on the twenty-third of march his mother the wife of a government official and a very fine woman made all do arrangements for having the child baptized she was lying on the bed opposite the door on her right stood the godfather Ivan Ivanovich Eroshkin a most estimable man who served as the head clerk of the senate and the godmother Arina Semyonova Bielobrinchkova the wife of an officer of the quarter and a woman of rare virtues they offered the mother her choice of three names Mokia Socia or that the child should be called after the martyr Kostasat no said the good woman all those names are poor in order to please her they opened the calendar at another place three more names appeared Trifili Dula and Varakazi this is awful said the old woman what names I truly never heard the like I might have put up with Varadot or Varuk but not Trifili and Varakazi they turned to another page and found Patsikaki and Vaktisi now I see said the old woman that it is plainly fate and such is the case it will be better to name him after his father his father's name was Akaki so let the son's name be Akaki too in this manner he became Akaki Akakevich they christened the child Varadot he wept and made a grimace as though he foresaw that he was to be a titular counselor in this manner did it all come about we have mentioned it in order that the reader might see for himself that it was a case of necessity and that it was utterly impossible to give him any other name when and how he entered the department and who appointed him no one could remember however much the directors and chiefs of all kinds were changed he was always to be seen in the same place the same attitude the same occupation always the letter copying clerk so that it was afterwards affirmed that he had been born in uniform with a bald head no respect was shown him in the department the porter not only did not rise from his seat when he passed but never even glanced at him any more than if a fly had flown through the reception room his superiors treated him in coolly despotic fashion some insignificant assistant to the head clerk would thrust a paper under his nose without so much as saying copy or here's an interesting little case or anything else agreeable as his customary amongst well-bred officials and he took it looking only at the paper and not observing who handed it to him or whether he had the right to do so he simply took it and said about copying it the young officials laughed at made fun of him so far as their official wit permitted told in his presence various stories concocted about him and about his landlady an old woman of seventy declared that she beat him asked when the wedding was to be and strewed bits of paper over his head calling them snow but a cocky a cocky of etch answered not a word any more than if there had been no one there besides himself it even had no effect upon his work amid these annoyances he never made a single mistake in a letter but if the joking became wholly unbearable as when they jogged his head and prevented his attending to his work he would exclaim leave me alone why do you insult me and there was something strange in the words and the voice in which they were uttered there was in it something which moved to pity so much so that one young man a newcomer who taking pattern by the others had permitted himself to make sport of a cocky suddenly stopped short as though all about him had undergone a transformation and presented itself in a different aspect some unseen force repelled him from the comrades whose acquaintance he had made on the supposition that they were decent well-bred men long afterwards in his gayest moments there recurred to his mind the little official with the bald forehead with his heartrending words leave me alone why do you insult me in these moving words other words resounded i am thy brother and the young man covered his face with his hand and many a time afterwards in the course of his life shuttered it seeing how much inhumanity there is in man how much savage coarseness is concealed beneath refined cultured worldly refinement and even oh god in that man whom the world acknowledges as honorable and upright it would be difficult to find another man who lives so entirely for his duties it is not enough to say that a cocky labored with zeal no he labored with love in his copying he found a varied and agreeable employment enjoyment was written on his face some letters were even favorites with him and when he encountered these he smiled winked and worked with his lips till it seemed as though each letter might be read in his face as his pen traced it if his pay had been in proportion to his zeal he would perhaps to his great surprise have been made even a counselor of state but he worked as his companions the wits put it like a horse in a mill however it would be untrue to say that no attention was paid to him one director being a kindly man and desirous of rewarding him for his long service ordered him to be given something more important than mere copying so he was ordered to make a report of an already concluded affair to another department the duty consisting simply in changing the heading and altering a few words from the first to the third person this caused him so much toil that he broke into a perspiration rubbed his forehead and finally said no give me rather something to copy after that they let him copy on forever outside this copying it appeared that nothing existed for him he gave no thought to his clothes his uniform was not green but a sort of rusty meal color the collar was low so that his neck in spite of the fact that it was not long seemed inordinately so as it emerged from it like the necks of the plaster cats which peddlers carry about on their heads and something was always sticking to his uniform either a bit of hay or some trifle moreover he had a peculiar knack as he walked along the street of arriving beneath the window just as all sorts of rubbish was being flung out of it hence he always bore about on his hat scraps of melon rinds and other such articles never once in his life did he give heed to what was going on every day to the street while it is well known that his young brother officials trained the range of their glances till they could see when any one's trouser straps came a done upon the opposite sidewalk which always brought a malicious smile to their faces but a cocky a cockay of it saw in all things the clean even strokes of his written lines and only when a horse thrust his nose from some unknown quarter over his shoulder and sent a whole gust of wind down his neck from his nostrils did he observe that he was not in the middle of the line but in the middle of the street on reaching home he sat down at once at the table sipped his cabbage soup up quickly and swallowed a bit of beef with onions never noticing their taste and gulping down everything with flies and anything else which the Lord happened to send at the moment when he saw that his stomach was beginning to swell he rose from the table and copied papers which he had brought home if there happened to be none he took copies for himself for his own gratification especially if the document was noteworthy not on account of its style but of its being addressed to some distinguished person even at the hour when the grey St. Petersburg sky had quite disappeared and all the official world had eaten or dined each as he could in accordance with the salary he received and his own fancy when all were resting from the department jar of pens running to and fro for their own and other people's indispensable occupations and from all the work that an uneasy man makes willingly for himself rather than what is necessary when officials hasten to dedicate to pleasure the time which is left to them one bolder than the rest going to the theater another into the street looking under the bonnets another wasting his evening in compliments to some pretty girl the star of a small official circle another and this is the common case of all visiting his comrades on the third or fourth floor in two small rooms with an anti-room or kitchen and some pretensions to fashion such as a lamp or some other trifle which has cost many a sacrifice of dinner or pleasure trip in a word at the hour when all officials disperse among the contracted quarters of their friends to play wist as they sip their tea from glasses with a copax worth of sugar smoke long pipes relate at times some bits of gossip which a Russian man can never under any circumstances refrain from and when there is nothing else to talk of repeat eternal anecdotes about the commandant to whom they had sent word that the tales of the horses on the falconet monument had been cut off when all strive to divert themselves Akaki Akakiyevich indulged in no kind of diversion no one could even say that he had seen him at any kind of evening party having written to his heart's content he lay down to sleep smiling at the thought of the coming day of what god might send him to copy on the morrow thus flowed on the peaceful life of the man with the salary of four hundred rubles understood how to be content with his lot and thus it would have continued to flow on perhaps to extreme old age were it not that there are various ill strewn along the path of life for titular counselors as well as for private actual court and every other species of counselor even to those who never give any advice or take any themselves there exists in st. Petersburg a powerful foe of all who receive a salary of four hundred rubles a year or thereabouts this foe is no other than the northern cold although it is said to be very healthy at nine o'clock in the morning at the very hour when the streets are filled with men bound for the various official departments it begins to bestow such powerful and piercing nips on all noses impartially that the poor officials really do not know what to do with them at an hour when the foreheads of even those who occupy exalted positions ache with the cold and tears start to their eyes the poor titular counselors are sometimes quite unprotected there are only salvation lives in traversing as quickly as possible in their thin little cloaks five or six streets and then warming their feet in the porter's room and so thawing all their talents and qualifications for official service which had become frozen on the way a cocky a cocky of it had felt for some time that his back and shoulders were painting with peculiar poignancy in spite of the fact that he tried to traverse the distance with all possible speed he began finally to wonder whether the fault did not lie in his cloak he examined it thoroughly at home and discovered that in two places namely on the back and shoulders it had become thin as gauze the cloth was worn to such a degree that he could see through it and the lining had fallen into pieces you must know that a cocky a cocky of it's cloak served as an object of ridicule to the officials they even refused it the noble name of cloak and called it a cape in fact it was of singular make it's color diminishing year by year to serve to patch its other parts the patching did not exhibit great skill on the part of the tailor and was in fact baggy and ugly seeing how the matter stood a cocky a cocky of it decided that it would be necessary to take the cloak to Petrovich the tailor who lived some time on the fourth floor up a dark staircase and who in spite of his having but one eye and pockmarks all over his face busied himself with considerable success in repairing the trousers and coats of officials and others that is to say when he was sober and not nursing some other scheme in his head it is not necessary to say much about this tether but as it is the custom to have the character of each personage in a novel clearly defined there is no help for it so here is Petrovich the tailor at first he was called only gregory and was some gentleman's serf he commenced calling himself Petrovich from the time when he received his free papers and further began to drink heavily on all holidays at first on the great ones and then on all church festivals without discrimination wherever Cross stood in the calendar on this point he was faithful to ancestral custom and when quarreling with his wife he called her a low female and a German as we have mentioned his wife it will be necessary to say a word or two about her unfortunately little is known of her beyond the fact that Petrovich had a wife who wore a cap and a dress but could not lay claim to beauty at least no one but the soldiers of the guard even looked under her cap when they met her ascending the staircase which led to Petrovich's room which staircase was all soaked with dishwater and reeked with the smell of spirits which affects the eyes and is an inevitable adjunct to all dark stairways in St. Petersburg houses ascending the stairs Akakia Kakevich pondered how much Petrovich would ask and mentally resolved not to give more than two rubles the door was open for the mistress in cooking some fish had raised such a smoke in the kitchen that not even the beetles were visible Akakia Kakevich passed through the kitchen unperceived even by the housewife and at length reached a room where he beheld Petrovich seated on a large unpainted table with his legs tucked under him like a Turkish pasha his feet were bare after the fashion of tailors as they sit at work and the first thing which caught the eye was his thumb with a deformed nail thick and strong as a turtle shell about Petrovich's neck hung a skin of silk and thread and upon his knees lace a mold garment he had been trying unsuccessfully for three minutes to thread his needle and was enraged at the darkness and even at the thread growling in a low voice it won't go through the barbarian you pricked me you rascal Akakia Kakevich was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when Petrovich was angry he liked to order something of Petrovich when he was a little downhearted or as his wife expressed it when he had settled himself with Brandy the one-eyed devil under such circumstances Petrovich came down in his price very readily and even bowed and returned thanks afterwards to be sure his wife would come complaining that her husband had been drunk and so had fixed the price too low but if only a ten-copeck piece were added then the matter would be settled but now it appeared that Petrovich was in a sober condition and therefore rough taciturn and inclined to demand Satan only knows what price Akakia Kakevich felt this and would gladly have beat a retreat but he was in for it Petrovich screwed up his one eye very intently at him and Akakia Kakevich involuntarily said how do you do Petrovich I wish you a good morning sir said Petrovich squinting at Akakia Kakevich's hands to see what sort of booty he had brought ah I to you Petrovich this it must be known that Akakia Kakevich expressed himself chiefly by prepositions adverbs and scraps of phrases which had no meaning whatever if the matter was a very difficult one he had a habit of never completing his sentences so that frequently having begun a phrase with the words this in fact is quite he forgot to go on thinking he had already finished it what is it asked Petrovich and with his one eye scanned Akakia Kakevich's whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs the back the tails and the buttonholes all of which were well known to him since they were his own handiwork such is the habit of tailors it is the first thing they do on meeting one but I hear this Petrovich's cloak cloth here you see everywhere in different places it is quite strong it is a little dusty and looks old but it is new only here in one place it is a little on the back and here on one of the shoulders it is a little worn yes here on the shoulder it is a little do you see that is all and a little work Petrovich took the cloak spread it out to begin with on the table looked at it hard shook his head and reached out his hand to the windowsilver's snuff box adorned with the portrait of some general though what general is unknown for the place where the face should have been had been rubbed through by the finger in a square bit of paper had been pasted over it having taken a pinch of snuff Petrovich held up the cloak and inspected it against the light and again shook his head then he turned it lining upwards and shook his head once more after which he again lifted the general adorned lid with its bit of pasted paper and having stuffed his nose with snuff dosed and put away the snuff box and said finally no it is impossible to mend it it is a wretched garment Akaki Akakevich's heart sank at these words why is it impossible Petrovich he said almost in the pleading voice of a child all that ails it is that it is worn on the shoulders you must have some pieces yes patches could be found patches are easily found said Petrovich but there's nothing to sew them to the thing is completely rotten if you put a needle to it see it will give way let it give way and you can put on another patch at once but there's nothing to put the patches on to there's no use in strengthening it it is too far gone it's lucky that it's cloth or if the wind were to blow it would fly away well strengthen it again how's this in fact no said Petrovich decisively there is nothing to be done with it it's a thoroughly bad job you'd better when the cold winter weather comes on make yourself some gators out of it because stockings are not warm the Germans invented them in order to make more money Petrovich loved on all occasions to have a fling at the Germans but it is plain you must have a new cloak at the word new all grew dark before Akake Akakevich's eyes and everything in the room began to whirl around the only thing he saw clearly was the general with the paper face on the lid of Petrovich's snuff box a new one said he as if still in a dream why I have no money for that yes a new one said Petrovich with Barber's composure if it came to a new one how it you mean how much would it cost yes well you would have to lay out a hundred and fifty or more said Petrovich and pursed up his lips significantly he liked to produce powerful effects liked to stun utterly and suddenly and then to glance sideways to see what face the stunned person would put on the matter a hundred and fifty rubles for a cloak shrieked poor Akake Akakevich perhaps for the first time in his life first voice had always been distinguished for softness yes sir said Petrovich for any kind of cloak if you have a martin fur on the collar or a silk lined hood it will mount up to two hundred Petrovich please said Akake Akakevich in a besieging tone not hearing and not trying to hear Petrovich's words and disregarding all his effects some repairs in order that it may wear yet a little longer no it would only be a waste of time and money said Petrovich and Akake Akakevich went away after these words utterly discouraged but Petrovich stood for some time after his departure significantly compressed lips and without but taking himself to his work satisfied that he would not be dropped and an artistic tailor employed Akake Akakevich went out into the street as if in a dream such an affair he said to himself I did not think it had come to and then after a pause he added well so it is see what it is come to at last I never imagined that it was so then followed a long silence after which he exclaimed well so it is see what already nothing unexpected that it would be nothing what a strange circumstance so saying instead of going home he went in exactly the opposite direction without suspecting it on the way a chimney sweep bumped up against him and blackened his shoulder and a whole hat full of rubbish landed on him from the top of the house which was building he did not notice it and only when he ran against a watchman who having planted his halberd beside him was shaking some snuff from his box into his horny hand did he recover himself a little and that because the watchman said why are you poking yourself into a man's very face haven't you the pavement this caused him to look about him and turn towards home there only he finally began to collect his thoughts and to survey his position in its clear and actual light and to argue with himself sensibly and frankly as with a reasonable friend with whom one can discuss private and personal matters no said akake akakevich it is impossible to reason with petrovich now he is that evidently his wife has been beating him i'd better go to him on sunday morning after saturday night he will be a little cross-eyed and sleepy for he will want to get drunk and his wife won't give him any money and at such a time a 10 kopeck piece in his hand will he will become more fit to reason with and then the cloak and that thus argued akake akakevich with himself regained his courage and waited until the first sunday when seeing from afar that petrovich's wife had left the house he went straight to him petrovich's eye was indeed very much a skew after saturday his head drooped and he was very sleepy but for all that as soon as he knew what it was a question of it seemed as though satan jogged his memory impossible said he pleased to order a new one thereupon akake akakevich handed over the 10 kopeck piece thank you sir i will drink to your good health said petrovich but as for the cloak don't trouble yourself about it it is good for nothing i will make you a capital new one so let us settle about it now akake akakevich was still permitting it but petrovich would not hear of it and said i shall certainly have to make you a new one and you may depend upon it that i shall do my best it may even be as the fashion goes that the collar can be fastened by silver hooks under a flap then akake akakevich saw that it was impossible to get along without a new cloak and his spirit sank utterly how in fact was it to be done where was the money to come from he must have some new trousers and pay a debt of longstanding to the shoemaker for putting new tops to his old boots and he must order three shirts from the seamstress and a couple of pieces of linen in short all his money must be spent and even if the director should be so kind as to order him to receive forty five or even fifty rubles instead of forty it would be a mere nothing a mere drop in the ocean towards the funds necessary for a cloak although he knew that petrovich was often wrongheaded enough to blurt out some outrageous price so that not even his own wife could not refrain from exclaiming have you lost your senses you fool at one time he would not work at any price and now it was quite likely that he had named a higher sum than the cloak would cost but although he knew that petrovich would undertake to make a cloak for eighty rubles still where was he to get the eighty rubles from he might possibly manage half yes half might be procured but where was the other half to come from but the reader must first be told where the first half came from a kake a kakevich had a habit of pudding for every rubble he spent a corrosion into a small box fastened with locking key and with the slit in the top for the reception of money at the end of every half year he counted over the heap of coppers and changed it for silver this he had done for a long time and in the course of years the sum had mounted up to over forty rubles thus he had one half on hand but where was he to find the other half where was he to get another forty rubles from a kake a kakevich thought and thought and decided that it would be necessary to curtail his ordinary expenses for the space of one year at least to dispense with tea in the evening to burn no candles and if there was anything which he must do to go into his landlady's room and work by her light when he went into the street he must walk as lightly as he could and as cautiously upon the stones almost upon tiptoe in order not to wear his heels down in too short a time he must give the laundry as little to wash as possible and in order not to wear out his clothes he must take them off as soon as he got home and wear only his cotton dressing gown which had been long and carefully saved to tell the truth it was a little hard for him at first to accustom himself to these deprivations but he got used to them at length after a fashion and all went smoothly he even got used to being hungry in the evening but he made up for it by treating himself so to say in spirit by bearing ever in mind the idea of his future cloak from that time forth his existence seemed to become in some way fuller as if he were married or as if some other man lived in him as if in fact he were not alone and some pleasant friend had consented to travel along life's path with him the friend being no other than the cloak with thick wadding and a strong lining incapable of wearing out he became more lively and even his character grew firmer like that of a man who has made up his mind and set himself a goal from his face and gait doubt and indecision all hesitating and wavering disappeared of themselves fire gleamed in his eyes and occasionally the boldest and most daring ideas flitted through his mind why not for instance have martin fur on the collar the thought of this almost made him absent minded once in copying a letter he nearly made a mistake so that he exclaimed almost aloud uh and crossed himself once in the course of every month he had a conference with Petrovich on the subject of the cloak where it would be better to buy the cloth and the color and the price he always returned home satisfied though troubled reflecting that the time would come at last when it could all be bought and then the cloak made the affair progressed more briskly than he had expected for beyond all his hopes the director awarded neither 40 nor 45 rubles for a kake a kakevich's share but 60 whether he suspected that a kake a kakevich needed a cloak or whether it was merely chance at all events 20 extra rubles were by this means provided this circumstance hastened matters two or three months more of hunger and a kake a kakevich had accumulated about 80 rubles his heart generally so quiet began to throb on the first possible day he went shopping in company with Petrovich they bought some very good cloth and at a reasonable rate too for they had been considering the matter for six months and rarely let a month pass without their visiting the shops to inquire prices Petrovich himself said that no better cloth could be had for lining they selected a cotton stuff but so firm and thick that Petrovich declared it to be better than silk and even prettier and more glossy they did not buy the martin fur because it was in fact dear but in its stead they picked out the very best of cat skin which could be found in the shop and which might indeed be taken for martin at a distance Petrovich worked at the cloak two whole weeks for there was a great deal of quilting otherwise it would have been finished sooner he charged 12 rubles for the job it could not possibly have been done for less it was all sewed with silk in small double seams and Petrovich went over each seam afterwards with his own teeth stamping in various patterns it was it is difficult to say precisely on what day but probably the most glorious one in a kake a kakevich's life when Petrovich at length brought home the cloak he brought it in the morning before the hour when it was necessary to start for the department never did a cloak arrive so exactly in the nick of time for the severe cold had set in and it seemed to threaten to increase Petrovich brought the cloak himself as befits a good tailor on his countenance was a significant expression such as a kake a kakevich had never beheld there he seemed fully sensible that he had done no small deed and crossed a gulf separating tailors who put in linings and execute repairs from those who make new things he took the cloak out of the pocket handkerchief in which he had brought it the handkerchief was fresh from the laundry and he put it in his pocket for use taking out the cloak he gazed proudly at it held it up with both hands and flung it skillfully over the shoulders of a kake a kakevich then he pulled it and fitted it down behind with his hand and he draped it around a kake a kakevich without buttoning it a kake a kakevich like an experienced man wished to try the sleeves Petrovich helped him on with them and it turned out that the sleeves were satisfactory also in short the cloak appeared to be perfect and most seasonable Petrovich did not neglect to observe that it was only because he lived in a narrow street and had no signboard and had known a kake a kakevich so long that he had made it so cheaply but that if he had been in business on the Nevsky prospect he would have charged seventy five rubles for the making alone a kake a kakevich did not care to argue at this point with Petrovich he paid him thanked him and set out at once in his new cloak for the department Petrovich followed him and pausing in the street gazed long at the cloak in the distance after which he went to one side expressly to run through a crooked alley and emerge again into the street beyond to gaze once more upon the cloak from another point namely directly in front meantime a kake a kakevich went on in holiday mood he was conscious every second of the time that he had a new cloak on his shoulders and several times he laughed with internal satisfaction in fact there were two advantages one was its warmth the other its beauty he saw nothing of the road but suddenly found himself at the department he took off his cloak in the ante room looked it over carefully and confided it to the special care of the attendant it is impossible to say precisely how it was that everyone in the department knew at once that a kake a kakevich had a new cloak and that the cape no longer existed all rushed at the same moment into the ante room to inspect it they congratulated him and said pleasant things to him so that he began at first to smile and then to grow ashamed when all surrounded him and said that the new cloak must be christened and that he must at least give them all a party a kake a kakevich lost his head completely and did not know where he stood what to answer or how to get out of it he stood blushing all over for several minutes trying to assure them with great simplicity that it was not a new cloak that it was in fact the old cape at length one of the officials assistant to the head clerk in order to show that he was not at all proud and on good terms with his inferior said so be it only i will give the party instead of a kake a kake of it i invite you all to tea with me tonight it just happens to be my name day too the officials naturally at once offered the assistant clerk their congratulations and accepted the invitation with pleasure a kake a kakevich would have declined but all declared that it was discourteous that it was simply a sin and a shame and that he could not possibly refuse besides the notion became pleasant to him when he recollected that he should thereby have a chance of wearing his new cloak in the evening also that whole day was truly a most triumphant festival for a kake a kakevich he returned home in the most happy frame of mind took off his cloak and hung it carefully on the wall admiring a fresh the cloth and the lining then he brought out his old worn out cloak for comparison he looked at it and laughed so vast was the difference and long after dinner he laughed again when the condition of the cape recurred to his mind he dined cheerfully and after dinner wrote nothing but took his ease for a while on the bed until it got dark then he dressed himself leisurely put on his cloak and stepped out into the street end of the cloak by Nikolai Gogol part one