The Gambler

n the morrow she said not a word to me about gambling. In fact, she
purposely avoided me, although her old manner to me had not changed:
the same serene coolness was hers on meeting me—a coolness that was
mingled even with a spice of contempt and dislike. In short, she was at
no pains to conceal her aversion to me. That I could see plainly. Also,
she did not trouble to conceal from me the fact that I was necessary to
her, and that she was keeping me for some end which she had in view.
Consequently there became established between us relations which, to a
large extent, were incomprehensible to me, considering her general
pride and aloofness. For example, although she knew that I was madly in
love with her, she allowed me to speak to her of my passion (though she
could not well have showed her contempt for me more than by permitting
me, unhindered and unrebuked, to mention to her my love).

“You see,” her attitude expressed, “how little I regard your feelings,
as well as how little I care for what you say to me, or for what you
feel for me.” Likewise, though she spoke as before concerning her
affairs, it was never with complete frankness. In her contempt for me
there were refinements. Although she knew well that I was aware of a
certain circumstance in her life of something which might one day cause
her trouble, she would speak to me about her affairs (whenever she had
need of me for a given end) as though I were a slave or a passing
acquaintance—yet tell them me only in so far as one would need to know
them if one were going to be made temporary use of. Had I not known the
whole chain of events, or had she not seen how much I was pained and
disturbed by her teasing insistency, she would never have thought it
worthwhile to soothe me with this frankness—even though, since she not
infrequently used me to execute commissions that were not only
troublesome, but risky, she ought, in my opinion, to have been frank in
any case. But, forsooth, it was not worth her while to trouble about
my feelings—about the fact that I was uneasy, and, perhaps, thrice
as put about by her cares and misfortunes as she was herself!

For three weeks I had known of her intention to take to roulette. She
had even warned me that she would like me to play on her behalf, since
it was unbecoming for her to play in person; and, from the tone of her
words I had gathered that there was something on her mind besides a
mere desire to win money. As if money could matter to her! No, she
had some end in view, and there were circumstances at which I could
guess, but which I did not know for certain. True, the slavery and
abasement in which she held me might have given me (such things often
do so) the power to question her with abrupt directness (seeing that,
inasmuch as I figured in her eyes as a mere slave and nonentity, she
could not very well have taken offence at any rude curiosity); but the
fact was that, though she let me question her, she never returned me a
single answer, and at times did not so much as notice me. That is how
matters stood.

Next day there was a good deal of talk about a telegram which, four
days ago, had been sent to St. Petersburg, but to which there had come
no answer. The General was visibly disturbed and moody, for the matter
concerned his mother. The Frenchman, too, was excited, and after dinner
the whole party talked long and seriously together—the Frenchman’s tone
being extraordinarily presumptuous and offhand to everybody. It almost
reminded one of the proverb, “Invite a man to your table, and soon he
will place his feet upon it.” Even to Polina he was brusque almost to
the point of rudeness. Yet still he seemed glad to join us in our walks
in the Casino, or in our rides and drives about the town. I had long
been aware of certain circumstances which bound the General to him; I
had long been aware that in Russia they had hatched some scheme
together although I did not know whether the plot had come to anything,
or whether it was still only in the stage of being talked of. Likewise
I was aware, in part, of a family secret—namely, that, last year, the
Frenchman had bailed the General out of debt, and given him 30,000
roubles wherewith to pay his Treasury dues on retiring from the
service. And now, of course, the General was in a vice—although the
chief part in the affair was being played by Mlle. Blanche. Yes, of
this last I had no doubt.

But who was this Mlle. Blanche? It was said of her that she was a
Frenchwoman of good birth who, living with her mother, possessed a
colossal fortune. It was also said that she was some relation to the
Marquis, but only a distant one a cousin, or cousin-german, or
something of the sort. Likewise I knew that, up to the time of my
journey to Paris, she and the Frenchman had been more ceremonious
towards our party—they had stood on a much more precise and delicate
footing with them; but that now their acquaintanceship—their
friendship, their intimacy—had taken on a much more off-hand and
rough-and-ready air. Perhaps they thought that our means were too
modest for them, and, therefore, unworthy of politeness or reticence.
Also, for the last three days I had noticed certain looks which Astley
had kept throwing at Mlle. Blanche and her mother; and it had occurred
to me that he must have had some previous acquaintance with the pair. I
had even surmised that the Frenchman too must have met Mr. Astley
before. Astley was a man so shy, reserved, and taciturn in his manner
that one might have looked for anything from him. At all events the
Frenchman accorded him only the slightest of greetings, and scarcely
even looked at him. Certainly he did not seem to be afraid of him;
which was intelligible enough. But why did Mlle. Blanche also never
look at the Englishman?—particularly since, à propos of something or
another, the Marquis had declared the Englishman to be immensely and
indubitably rich? Was not that a sufficient reason to make Mlle.
Blanche look at the Englishman? Anyway the General seemed extremely
uneasy; and, one could well understand what a telegram to announce the
death of his mother would mean for him!

Although I thought it probable that Polina was avoiding me for a
definite reason, I adopted a cold and indifferent air; for I felt
pretty certain that it would not be long before she herself approached
me. For two days, therefore, I devoted my attention to Mlle. Blanche.
The poor General was in despair! To fall in love at fifty-five, and
with such vehemence, is indeed a misfortune! And add to that his
widowerhood, his children, his ruined property, his debts, and the
woman with whom he had fallen in love! Though Mlle. Blanche was
extremely good-looking, I may or may not be understood when I say that
she had one of those faces which one is afraid of. At all events, I
myself have always feared such women. Apparently about twenty-five
years of age, she was tall and broad-shouldered, with shoulders that
sloped; yet though her neck and bosom were ample in their proportions,
her skin was dull yellow in colour, while her hair (which was extremely
abundant—sufficient to make two coiffures) was as black as Indian ink.
Add to that a pair of black eyes with yellowish whites, a proud glance,
gleaming teeth, and lips which were perennially pomaded and redolent of
musk. As for her dress, it was invariably rich, effective, and chic,
yet in good taste. Lastly, her feet and hands were astonishing, and her
voice a deep contralto. Sometimes, when she laughed, she displayed her
teeth, but at ordinary times her air was taciturn and
haughty—especially in the presence of Polina and Maria Philipovna. Yet
she seemed to me almost destitute of education, and even of wits,
though cunning and suspicious. This, apparently, was not because her
life had been lacking in incident. Perhaps, if all were known, the
Marquis was not her kinsman at all, nor her mother, her mother; but
there was evidence that, in Berlin, where we had first come across the
pair, they had possessed acquaintances of good standing. As for the
Marquis himself, I doubt to this day if he was a Marquis—although about
the fact that he had formerly belonged to high society (for instance,
in Moscow and Germany) there could be no doubt whatever. What he had
formerly been in France I had not a notion. All I knew was that he was
said to possess a château. During the last two weeks I had looked for
much to transpire, but am still ignorant whether at that time anything
decisive ever passed between Mademoiselle and the General. Everything
seemed to depend upon our means—upon whether the General would be able
to flourish sufficient money in her face. If ever the news should
arrive that the grandmother was not dead, Mlle. Blanche, I felt sure,
would disappear in a twinkling. Indeed, it surprised and amused me to
observe what a passion for intrigue I was developing. But how I loathed
it all! With what pleasure would I have given everybody and everything
the go-by! Only—I could not leave Polina. How, then, could I show
contempt for those who surrounded her? Espionage is a base thing,
but—what have I to do with that?

Mr. Astley, too, I found a curious person. I was only sure that he had
fallen in love with Polina. A remarkable and diverting circumstance is
the amount which may lie in the mien of a shy and painfully modest man
who has been touched with the divine passion—especially when he would
rather sink into the earth than betray himself by a single word or
look. Though Mr. Astley frequently met us when we were out walking, he
would merely take off his hat and pass us by, though I knew he was
dying to join us. Even when invited to do so, he would refuse. Again,
in places of amusement—in the Casino, at concerts, or near the
fountain—he was never far from the spot where we were sitting. In fact,
wherever we were in the Park, in the forest, or on the
Shlangenberg—one needed but to raise one’s eyes and glance around to
catch sight of at least a portion of Mr. Astley’s frame sticking
out—whether on an adjacent path or behind a bush. Yet never did he lose
any chance of speaking to myself; and, one morning when we had met, and
exchanged a couple of words, he burst out in his usual abrupt way,
without saying “Good-morning.”

“That Mlle. Blanche,” he said. “Well, I have seen a good many women
like her.”

After that he was silent as he looked me meaningly in the face. What he
meant I did not know, but to my glance of inquiry he returned only a
dry nod, and a reiterated “It is so.” Presently, however, he resumed:

“Does Mlle. Polina like flowers?”

“I really cannot say,” was my reply.

“What? You cannot say?” he cried in great astonishment.

“No; I have never noticed whether she does so or not,” I repeated with
a smile.

“Hm! Then I have an idea in my mind,” he concluded. Lastly, with a nod,
he walked away with a pleased expression on his face. The conversation
had been carried on in execrable French.