Chapter I: Part 1

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

In the plain text version text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_), small capitals are represented in upper case as in SMALL CAPS, text in bold is represented as in =text in bold=.

A number of words in this book have both hyphenated and non-hyphenated variants. For the words with both variants present the one more used has been kept.

During the review process it was brought to the Transcriber's attention that the edition used to create this project has some text missing in the story "The Queen of Spades". A search made has confirmed the issue. According to the version of this story included in "The Prose Tales of Alexander Pushkin", translated by Thomas Keane, and posted also in Project Gutenberg, the following text is missing at the end:

Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man, a son
of the former steward of the old Countess. He is in the service
of the State somewhere, and is in receipt of a good income.
Lizaveta is also supporting a poor relative.

Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain, and has become
the husband of the Princess Pauline.

Obvious punctuation and other printing errors have been corrected.

* * * * *

SHORT STORY
CLASSICS

(FOREIGN)

VOLUME ONE
RUSSIAN

EDITED BY
William Patten

WITH
AN INTRODUCTION
AND NOTES

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

COPYRIGHT 1907
BY P. F. COLLIER & SON

The use of the copyrighted translations in
collection has been authorized by the
authors or their representatives. The
translations made especially for
this collection are covered
by the general
copyright

CONTENTS--VOLUME I
RUSSIAN

PAGE

THE QUEEN OF SPADES
ALEXANDER SERGEIEVITCH POUSHKIN 3

THE CLOAK
NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL 21

THE RENDEZVOUS
IVÁN TURGENEV 67

THE COUNTING-HOUSE
IVÁN TURGENEV 81

THE THIEF
FEODOR MIKAILOVITCH DOSTOIEVSKI 109

THE LONG EXILE
COUNT LEO NIKOLAIEVITCH TOLSTOI 137

EASTER NIGHT
VLADÍMIR GALAKTIONOVITCH KOROLÉNKO 153

THE SIGNAL
VSEVOLOD MIKAILOVITCH GARSHIN 165

THE CURSE OF FAME
IGNATIY NIKOLAIEVITCH POTAPENKO 183

A WORK OF ART
ANTON PAVLOVITCH CHEKHOV 217

THE SLANDERER
ANTON PAVLOVITCH CHEKHOV 223

FAUST
EUGÈNE NIKOLAIEVITCH CHIRIKOV 231

THE DUEL
NIKOLAI DMÍTRIEVITCH TELESHOV 263

BOLESS
ALEXEI MAXIMOVITCH PYESHKOV (MAXIM GORKI) 273

THE LOVE OF A SCENE-PAINTER
“SKITALITZ” 285

VALIA
LEONID ANDREIEV 309

CONTENTS--VOLUME II
ITALIAN

PAGE

THE LOST LETTER
ENRICO CASTELNUOVO 329

CAVALLERIA RUSTICANA
GIOVANNI VERGA 347

THE SILVER CRUCIFIX
ANTONIO FOGAZZARO 359

THE LITTLE SARDINIAN DRUMMER
EDMONDO DE AMICIS 375

LULU’S TRIUMPH
MATILDA SERAO 387

THE END OF CANDIA
GABRIELE D’ANNUNZIO 411

SIGNORA SPERANZA
LUIGI PIRANDELLO 427

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN
GRAZIA DELEDDA 481

SCANDINAVIAN

RAILROAD AND CHURCHYARD
BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON 511

BJÖRN SIVERTSEN’S WEDDING TRIP
HOLGER DRACHMANN 547

JALO THE TROTTER
JOHANN JACOB AHRENBERG 567

THE PLAGUE AT BERGAMO
JENS PETER JACOBSEN 583

KAREN
ALEXANDER LANGE KIELLAND 595

LOVE AND BREAD
JEAN AUGUST STRINDBERG 605

IRENE HOLM
HERMANN JOACHIM BANG 619

THE OUTLAWS
SELMA LAGERLÖF 637

CONTENTS--VOLUME III
GERMAN

PAGE

THE BROKEN CUP
JOHANN HEINRICH DANIEL ZSCHOKKE 663

CASTLE NEIDECK
WILHELM HEINRICH VON RIEHL 691

THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI
PAUL JOHANN LUDWIG HEYSE 739

THE STONEBREAKERS
FERDINAND VON SAAR 793

THOU SHALT NOT KILL
LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH 839

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
RUDOLF BAUMBACH 849

GOOD BLOOD
ERNST VON WILDENBRUCH 863

DELIVERANCE
MAX SIMON NORDAU 903

A NEW-YEAR’S EVE CONFESSION
HERMANN SUDERMANN 917

BRIC-A-BRAC AND DESTINIES
GABRIELE REUTER 929

THE FUR COAT
LUDWIG FULDA 939

THE DEAD ARE SILENT
ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 955

MARGRET’S PILGRIMAGE
CLARA VIEBIG 981

CONTENTS--VOLUME IV
FRENCH
PAGE

THE UNKNOWN MASTERPIECE
HONORÉ DE BALZAC 1007

THE PRICE OF A LIFE
AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE 1049

NAPOLEON AND POPE PIUS VII
ALFRED VICTOR, COMTE DE VIGNY 1067

CLAUDE GUEUX
VICTOR MARIE HUGO 1083

A BAL MASQUÉ
ALEXANDRE DAVY DE LA PAILLETERIE DUMAS 1105

HOW THE REDOUBT WAS TAKEN
PROSPER MÉRIMÉE 1121

THE VENDEAN MARRIAGE
JULES GABRIEL JANIN 1131

THE MARQUISE
GEORGE SAND 1149

THE BEAUTY-SPOT
ALFRED LOUIS CHARLES DE MUSSET 1185

THE MUMMY’S FOOT
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER 1237

CIRCÉ
OCTAVE FEUILLET 1257

THE HANGING AT LA PIROCHE
ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS 1269

THE DEAN’S WATCH
ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN 1289

AT THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE
ALPHONSE DAUDET 1319

BOUM-BOUM
JULES CLARETIE 1327

CONTENTS--VOLUME V
FRENCH

PAGE

LA BRETONNE
ANDRÉ THEURIET 1339

WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
EDMOND ABOUT 1349

THE GRAND MARRIAGE
LUDOVIC HALÉVY 1379

THE ACCURSED HOUSE
ÉMILE GABORIAU 1415

THE FÊTE AT COQUEVILLE
ÉMILE ZOLA 1427

THE LOST CHILD
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE 1471

PUTOIS
ANATOLE FRANCE 1495

SAC-AU-DOS
JORIS KARL HUYSMANS 1515

“BONJOUR, MONSIEUR”
JEAN RICHEPIN 1559

THE BIT OF STRING
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1571

THE NECKLACE
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1581

THE WALL OPPOSITE
PIERRE LOTI 1595

THE ANCESTOR
PAUL BOURGET 1605

WHEN HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
HENRI LAVEDAN 1639

A GENTLEMAN FINDS A WATCH
GEORGES COURTELINE 1651

A YOUNG GIRL’S DIARY
MARCEL PRÉVOST 1659

THE SIGN OF THE KEY AND THE CROSS
HENRI DE RÉGNIER 1671

THE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR
ALPHONSE ALLAIS 1685

_PREFACE_

_When the five-volume collection known as “Short Story Classics (American)” was planned, it was entirely evident that it should be supplemented by a collection of the best examples of the short story to be found in foreign literatures._

_The five volumes now offered to the public are designed to supply this lack. They contain seventy-eight short stories, chosen from the literatures of France, Russia, Germany, Italy, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland--works of importance that have made their mark in the literary world._

_The aim has been not only to represent the most widely sympathetic writers, but to select their most generally interesting as well as characteristic stories. The stories have all been written within the last seventy-five years, which has this advantage for the reader, that the scope of the collection may be said to lie within present-day interests._

_None of the stories by the following authors appear in any other collection:_

_FRENCH_

_Honoré de Balzac_, _Eugène Scribe_, _Alfred de Vigny_, _Victor Hugo_, _Alexandre Dumas_, _Prosper Mérimée_, _Jules Janin_, _George Sand_, _Alfred de Musset_, _Théophile Gautier_, _Octave Feuillet_, _Alexandre Dumas (Fils)_, _Erckmann-Chatrian_, _Alphonse Daudet_, _André Theuriet_, _Ludovic Halévy_, _Émile Gaboriau_, _Émile Zola_, _Jules Claretie_, _François Coppée_, _Anatole France_, _Joris Karl Huysmans_, _Jean Richepin_, _Pierre Loti_, _Paul Bourget_, _Henri de Régnier_, _Henri Lavedan_, _Marcel Prévost_, _Georges Courteline_, _Alphonse Allais_.

_RUSSIAN_

_Poushkin_, _Gogol_, _Turgenev_, _Dostoievski_, _Tolstoi_, _Korolénko_, _Garshin_, _Potapenko_, _Chekhov_, _Chirikov_, _Teleshov_, _Maxim Gorki_, “_Skitalitz_,” _Andreiev_.

_ITALIAN AND SCANDINAVIAN_

_Enrico Castelnuovo_, _Giovanni Verga_, _Antonio Fogaszaro_, _Edmondo de Amicis_, _Matilda Serao_, _Gabriele d’Annunzio_, _Luigi Pirandello_, _Grazia Deledda_, _Björnson_, _Holger Drachmann_, _Jacob Ahrenberg_, _Jens Peter Jacobsen_, _Alexander Kielland_, _August Strindberg_, _Hermann Bang_, _Selma Lagerlöf_.

_GERMAN_

_Heinrich Zschokke_, _Wilhelm Heinrich von Riehl_, _Paul Heyse_, _Ferdinand von Saar_, _Leopold von Sacher-Masoch_, _Rudolf Baumbach_, _Ernst von Wildenbruch_, _Max Nordau_, _Hermann Sudermann_, _Gabriele Reuter_, _Ludwig Fulda_, _Arthur Schnitzler_, _and Clara Viebig_.

_About half of the stories have been especially translated for this collection, and some of them now appear in English for the first time. Among these will be found some by the more recent writers in Germany and Russia, two very interesting groups of moderns whose work has not received as much attention at the hands of the public as it would seem to merit._

_In only two or three cases, where the point of view was likely to fail of appreciation by American readers, have the stories been abbreviated or otherwise altered; and attention has been called to this in the accompanying note._

_The notes which preceded the stories in “Short Story Classics (American)” proved to be an appreciated and even popular feature, and it is hoped that those written for the present collection may prove equally acceptable._

_If any one country more than another can be said to excel in the use and development of the modern short story form, it is France. The literatures of Russia, Italy, Germany, Norway, Sweden, and Denmark, as well as that of the United States, have all been influenced to a greater or lesser extent by the art of Balzac, Gautier, Mérimée, and De Maupassant, for in France short story writing may be said to be based on a theory of art, and to be, consequently, the result of conviction._

_This theory of art, apart from the questions of form which it involves, in themselves important considerations, affords great freedom to the writer in the choice of subject-matter and the method of treatment. It presupposes the artist’s right to his point of view. It presupposes an audience more keenly alive to life and the manifestations of life than is characteristic of the general reading public in America at the present time. Generalizations like these are at the best unsatisfactory, since the differences alluded to must be apprehended and can not be well expounded; they will have abundantly served their purpose if they awaken curiosity and prompt the reader unfamiliar with the short story in foreign literatures, and especially in the literature of France, to make his own comparisons._

_All over the world the literary main current seems to be toward the development of the realism of twenty-five years ago. From Denmark, where the trace is slightest, to Russia, where it is most brutal, the best work is apparently being done by the realists. In France there is a decided reaction against strenuous realism, but it is principally the reaction of a few individuals, and among these the most prominent is Anatole France. He is not any the less a realist, in the sense of being true to nature, because his intelligence is concerned with an appreciation of something else besides the material side of life._

_To those who are familiar with the work of Émile Zola, it seems desirable to explain that “Jacques Damour,” a really great story, was too long to be included in this collection. An interesting comparison can be made between “The Bit of String,” by Guy de Maupassant, and the two stories which it inspired, “The Slanderer,” by Anton Chekhov, and “The End of Candia,” by Gabriele d’Annunzio._

_Even the most casual reader must surely be impressed with the extraordinary vitality of these stories and their likeness to life. It is a likeness that is not always optimistic, it is true, as in the case of many of the Russian writers, for example, but it seldom depends on a misstatement of the facts of experience to create its effect, and is seldom lacking in integrity of workmanship._

_I am glad of an opportunity to record my appreciation of the intelligent and interested assistance rendered by Mr. R. W. Howes 3d, in preparing these volumes for the press._

_William Patten._

THE QUEEN OF SPADES
BY ALEXANDER SERGEIEVITCH POUSHKIN

_Alexander Poushkin (born 1799, died 1837) was the greatest genius
among the Russian poets. Though born of a noble family, thick
lips and crisp, curly hair showed his descent from an Abyssinian
negro slave ancestor on his mother’s side. As a poet his work has
been compared with that of Byron, of which he was frankly a close
student. Chronologically he comes first in the list of Russian
prose writers, a list that includes Gogol, Turgenev, Dostoievski,
and Tolstoi. “The Queen of Spades” is one of the best and most
characteristic of his short stories._

THE QUEEN OF SPADES
BY ALEXANDER POUSHKIN

Translated by H. Twitehell. Copyright, 1901,
by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

At the house of Naroumov, a cavalry officer, the long winter night had been passed in gambling. At five in the morning breakfast was served to the weary players. The winners ate with relish; the losers, on the contrary, pushed back their plates and sat brooding gloomily. Under the influence of the good wine, however, the conversation became general.

“Well, Sourine?” said the host inquiringly.

“Oh, I lost as usual. My luck is abominable. No matter how cool I keep, I never win.”

“How is it, Herman, that you never touch a card?” remarked one of the men, addressing a young officer of the Engineering Corps. “Here you are with the rest of us at five o’clock in the morning, and you have neither played nor bet all night.”

“Play interests me greatly,” replied the person addressed, “but I hardly care to sacrifice the necessaries of life for uncertain superfluities.”

“Herman is a German, therefore economical; that explains it,” said Tomsky. “But the person I can’t quite understand is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedorovna.”

“Why?” inquired a chorus of voices.

“I can’t understand why my grandmother never gambles.”

“I don’t see anything very striking in the fact that a woman of eighty refuses to gamble,” objected Naroumov.

“Have you never heard her story?”

“No.”

“Well, then, listen to it. To begin with, sixty years ago my grandmother went to Paris, where she was all the fashion. People crowded each other in the streets to get a chance to see the ‘Muscovite Venus,’ as she was called. All the great ladies played faro, then. On one occasion, while playing with the Duke of Orleans, she lost an enormous sum. She told her husband of the debt, but he refused outright to pay it. Nothing could induce him to change his mind on the subject, and grandmother was at her wits’ ends. Finally, she remembered a friend of hers, Count Saint-Germain. You must have heard of him, as many wonderful stories have been told about him. He is said to have discovered the elixir of life, the philosopher’s stone, and many other equally marvelous things. He had money at his disposal, and my grandmother knew it. She sent him a note asking him to come to see her. He obeyed her summons and found her in great distress. She painted the cruelty of her husband in the darkest colors, and ended by telling the Count that she depended upon his friendship and generosity.

“‘I could lend you the money,’ replied the Count, after a moment of thoughtfulness, ‘but I know that you would not enjoy a moment’s rest until you had returned it; it would only add to your embarrassment. There is another way of freeing yourself.’

“‘But I have no money at all,’ insisted my grandmother.

“‘There is no need of money. Listen to me.’

“The Count then told her a secret which any of us would give a good deal to know.”

The young gamesters were all attention. Tomsky lit his pipe, took a few whiffs, then continued:

“The next evening, grandmother appeared at Versailles at the Queen’s gaming-table. The Duke of Orleans was the dealer. Grandmother made some excuse for not having brought any money, and began to punt. She chose three cards in succession, again and again, winning every time, and was soon out of debt.”

“A fable,” remarked Herman; “perhaps the cards were marked.”

“I hardly think so,” replied Tomsky, with an air of importance.

“So you have a grandmother who knows three winning cards, and you haven’t found out the magic secret.”

“I must say I have not. She had four sons, one of them being my father, all of whom are devoted to play; she never told the secret to one of them. But my uncle told me this much, on his word of honor. Tchaplitzky, who died in poverty after having squandered millions, lost at one time, at play, nearly three hundred thousand rubles. He was desperate and grandmother took pity on him. She told him the three cards, making him swear never to use them again. He returned to the game, staked fifty thousand rubles on each card, and came out ahead, after paying his debts.”

As day was dawning the party now broke up, each one draining his glass and taking his leave.

* * * * *

The Countess Anna Fedorovna was seated before her mirror in her dressing-room. Three women were assisting at her toilet. The old Countess no longer made the slightest pretensions to beauty, but she still clung to all the habits of her youth, and spent as much time at her toilet as she had done sixty years before. At the window a young girl, her ward, sat at her needle-work.

“Good afternoon, grandmother,” cried a young officer, who had just entered the room. “I have come to ask a favor of you.”

“What, Pavel?”

“I want to be allowed to present one of my friends to you, and to take you to the ball on Tuesday night.”

“Take me to the ball and present him to me there.”

After a few more remarks the officer walked up to the window where Lisaveta Ivanovna sat.

“Whom do you wish to present?” asked the girl.

“Naroumov; do you know him?”

“No; is he a soldier?”

“Yes.”

“An engineer?”

“No; why do you ask?”

The girl smiled and made no reply.

Pavel Tomsky took his leave, and, left to herself, Lisaveta glanced out of the window. Soon, a young officer appeared at the corner of the street; the girl blushed and bent her head low over her canvas.

This appearance of the officer had become a daily occurrence. The man was totally unknown to her, and as she was not accustomed to coquetting with the soldiers she saw on the street, she hardly knew how to explain his presence. His persistence finally roused an interest entirely strange to her. One day, she even ventured to smile upon her admirer, for such he seemed to be.

The reader need hardly be told that the officer was no other than Herman, the would-be gambler, whose imagination had been strongly excited by the story told by Tomsky of the three magic cards.

“Ah,” he thought, “if the old Countess would only reveal the secret to me. Why not try to win her good-will and appeal to her sympathy?”

With this idea in mind, he took up his daily station before the house, watching the pretty face at the window, and trusting to fate to bring about the desired acquaintance.

One day, as Lisaveta was standing on the pavement about to enter the carriage after the Countess, she felt herself jostled and a note was thrust into her hand. Turning, she saw the young officer at her elbow. As quick as thought, she put the note in her glove and entered the carriage. On her return from the drive, she hastened to her chamber to read the missive, in a state of excitement mingled with fear. It was a tender and respectful declaration of affection, copied word for word from a German novel. Of this fact, Lisa was, of course, ignorant.

The young girl was much impressed by the missive, but she felt that the writer must not be encouraged. She therefore wrote a few lines of explanation and, at the first opportunity, dropped it, with the letter, out of the window. The officer hastily crossed the street, picked up the papers and entered a shop to read them.

In no wise daunted by this rebuff, he found the opportunity to send her another note in a few days. He received no reply, but, evidently understanding the female heart, he persevered, begging for an interview. He was rewarded at last by the following:

“To-night we go to the ambassador’s ball. We shall remain until two o’clock. I can arrange for a meeting in this way. After our departure, the servants will probably all go out, or go to sleep. At half-past eleven enter the vestibule boldly, and if you see any one, inquire for the Countess; if not, ascend the stairs, turn to the left and go on until you come to a door, which opens into her bed-chamber. Enter this room and behind a screen you will find another door leading to a corridor; from this a spiral staircase leads to my sitting-room. I shall expect to find you there on my return.”

Herman trembled like a leaf as the appointed hour drew near. He obeyed instructions fully, and, as he met no one, he reached the old lady’s bed-chamber without difficulty. Instead of going out of the small door behind the screen, however, he concealed himself in a closet to await the return of the old Countess.

The hours dragged slowly by; at last he heard the sound of wheels. Immediately lamps were lighted and servants began moving about. Finally the old woman tottered into the room, completely exhausted. Her women removed her wraps and proceeded to get her in readiness for the night. Herman watched the proceedings with a curiosity not unmingled with superstitious fear. When at last she was attired in cap and gown, the old woman looked less uncanny than when she wore her ball-dress of blue brocade.

She sat down in an easy chair beside a table, as she was in the habit of doing before retiring, and her women withdrew. As the old lady sat swaying to and fro, seemingly oblivious to her surroundings, Herman crept out of his hiding-place.

At the slight noise the old woman opened her eyes, and gazed at the intruder with a half-dazed expression.

“Have no fear, I beg of you,” said Herman, in a calm voice. “I have not come to harm you, but to ask a favor of you instead.”

The Countess looked at him in silence, seemingly without comprehending him. Herman thought she might be deaf, so he put his lips close to her ear and repeated his remark. The listener remained perfectly mute.

“You could make my fortune without its costing you anything,” pleaded the young man; “only tell me the three cards which are sure to win, and--”

Herman paused as the old woman opened her lips as if about to speak.

“It was only a jest; I swear to you, it was only a jest,” came from the withered lips.

“There was no jesting about it. Remember Tchaplitzky, who, thanks to you, was able to pay his debts.”

An expression of interior agitation passed over the face of the old woman; then she relapsed into her former apathy.

“Will you tell me the names of the magic cards, or not?” asked Herman after a pause.

There was no reply.

The young man then drew a pistol from his pocket, exclaiming: “You old witch, I’ll force you to tell me!”

At the sight of the weapon the Countess gave a second sign of life. She threw back her head and put out her hands as if to protect herself; then they dropped and she sat motionless.

Herman grasped her arm roughly, and was about to renew his threats, when he saw that she was dead!

* * * * *

Seated in her room, still in her ball-dress, Lisaveta gave herself up to her reflections. She had expected to find the young officer there, but she felt relieved to see that he was not.

Strangely enough, that very night at the ball, Tomsky had rallied her about her preference for the young officer, assuring her that he knew more than she supposed he did.

“Of whom are you speaking?” she had asked in alarm, fearing her adventure had been discovered.

“Of the remarkable man,” was the reply. “His name is Herman.”

Lisa made no reply.

“This Herman,” continued Tomsky, “is a romantic character; he has the profile of a Napoleon and the heart of a Mephistopheles. It is said he has at least three crimes on his conscience. But how pale you are.”

“It is only a slight headache. But why do you talk to me of this Herman?”

“Because I believe he has serious intentions concerning you.”

“Where has he seen me?”

“At church, perhaps, or on the street.”

The conversation was interrupted at this point, to the great regret of the young girl. The words of Tomsky made a deep impression upon her, and she realized how imprudently she had acted. She was thinking of all this and a great deal more when the door of her apartment suddenly opened, and Herman stood before her. She drew back at sight of him, trembling violently.

“Where have you been?” she asked in a frightened whisper.

“In the bed-chamber of the Countess. She is dead,” was the calm reply.

“My God! What are you saying?” cried the girl.

“Furthermore, I believe that I was the cause of her death.”

The words of Tomsky flashed through Lisa’s mind.

Herman sat down and told her all. She listened with a feeling of terror and disgust. So those passionate letters, that audacious pursuit were not the result of tenderness and love. It was money that he desired. The poor girl felt that she had in a sense been an accomplice in the death of her benefactress. She began to weep bitterly. Herman regarded her in silence.

“You are a monster!” exclaimed Lisa, drying her eyes.

“I didn’t intend to kill her; the pistol was not even loaded.”

“How are you going to get out of the house?” inquired Lisa. “It is nearly daylight. I intended to show you the way to a secret staircase, while the Countess was asleep, as we would have to cross her chamber. Now I am afraid to do so.”

“Direct me, and I will find the way alone,” replied Herman.

She gave him minute instructions and a key with which to open the street door. The young man pressed the cold, inert hand, then went out.

The death of the Countess had surprised no one, as it had long been expected. Her funeral was attended by every one of note in the vicinity. Herman mingled with the throng without attracting any especial attention. After all the friends had taken their last look at the dead face, the young man approached the bier. He prostrated himself on the cold floor, and remained motionless for a long time. He rose at last with a face almost as pale as that of the corpse itself, and went up the steps to look into the casket. As he looked down it seemed to him that the rigid face returned his glance mockingly, closing one eye. He turned abruptly away, made a false step, and fell to the floor. He was picked up, and, at the same moment, Lisaveta was carried out in a faint.

Herman did not recover his usual composure during the entire day. He dined alone at an out-of-the-way restaurant, and drank a great deal, in the hope of stifling his emotion. The wine only served to stimulate his imagination. He returned home and threw himself down on his bed without undressing.

During the night he awoke with a start; the moon shone into his chamber, making everything plainly visible. Some one looked in at the window, then quickly disappeared. He paid no attention to this, but soon he heard the vestibule door open. He thought it was his orderly, returning late, drunk as usual. The step was an unfamiliar one, and he heard the shuffling sound of loose slippers.

The door of his room opened, and a woman in white entered. She came close to the bed, and the terrified man recognized the Countess.

“I have come to you against my will,” she said abruptly; “but I was commanded to grant your request. The three, seven, and ace in succession are the magic cards. Twenty-four hours must elapse between the use of each card, and after the three have been used you must never play again.”

The fantom then turned and walked away. Herman heard the outside door close, and again saw the form pass the window.

He rose and went out into the hall, where his orderly lay asleep on the floor. The door was closed. Finding no trace of a visitor, he returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote down what he had just heard.

Two fixed ideas can not exist in the brain at the same time any more than two bodies can occupy the same point in space. The three, seven, and ace soon chased away the thoughts of the dead woman, and all other thoughts from the brain of the young officer. All his ideas merged into a single one: how to turn to advantage the secret paid for so dearly. He even thought of resigning his commission and going to Paris to force a fortune from conquered fate. Chance rescued him from his embarrassment.

Tchekalinsky, a man who had passed his whole life at cards, opened a club at St. Petersburg. His long experience secured for him the confidence of his companions, and his hospitality and genial humor conciliated society.

The gilded youth flocked around him, neglecting society, preferring the charms of faro to those of their sweethearts. Naroumov invited Herman to accompany him to the club, and the young man accepted the invitation only too willingly.

The two officers found the apartments full. Generals and statesmen played whist; young men lounged on sofas, eating ices or smoking. In the principal salon stood a long table, at which about twenty men sat playing faro, the host of the establishment being the banker.

He was a man of about sixty, gray-haired and respectable. His ruddy face shone with genial humor; his eyes sparkled and a constant smile hovered around his lips.

Naroumov presented Herman. The host gave him a cordial handshake, begged him not to stand upon ceremony, and returned to his dealing. More than thirty cards were already on the table. Tchekalinsky paused after each coup, to allow the punters time to recognize their gains or losses, politely answering all questions and constantly smiling.

After the deal was over, the cards were shuffled and the game began again.

“Permit me to choose a card,” said Herman, stretching out his hand over the head of a portly gentleman, to reach a livret. The banker bowed without replying.

Herman chose a card, and wrote the amount of his stake upon it with a piece of chalk.

“How much is that?” asked the banker; “excuse me, sir, but I do not see well.”

“Forty thousand rubles,” said Herman coolly.

All eyes were instantly turned upon the speaker.

“He has lost his wits,” thought Naroumov.

“Allow me to observe,” said Tchekalinsky, with his eternal smile, “that your stake is excessive.”

“What of it?” replied Herman, nettled. “Do you accept it or not?”

The banker nodded in assent. “I have only to remind you that the cash will be necessary; of course your word is good, but in order to keep the confidence of my patrons, I prefer the ready money.”

Herman took a bank-check from his pocket and handed it to his host. The latter examined it attentively, then laid it on the card chosen.

He began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a three.

“The three wins,” said Herman, showing the card he held--a three.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Tchekalinsky frowned for a second only, then his smile returned. He took a roll of bank-bills from his pocket and counted out the required sum. Herman received it and at once left the table.

The next evening saw him at the place again. Every one eyed him curiously, and Tchekalinsky greeted him cordially.

He selected his card and placed upon it his fresh stake. The banker began dealing: to the right, a nine; to the left, a seven.

Herman then showed his card--a seven spot. The onlookers exclaimed, and the host was visibly disturbed. He counted out ninety-four thousand rubles and passed them to Herman, who accepted them without showing the least surprise, and at once withdrew.

The following evening he went again. His appearance was the signal for the cessation of all occupation, every one being eager to watch the developments of events. He selected his card--an ace.

The dealing began: to the right, a queen; to the left, an ace.

“The ace wins,” remarked Herman, turning up his card without glancing at it.

“Your queen is killed,” remarked Tchekalinsky quietly.

Herman trembled; looking down, he saw, not the ace he had selected, but the queen of spades. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It seemed impossible that he could have made such a mistake. As he stared at the card it seemed to him that the queen winked one eye at him mockingly.

“The old woman!” he exclaimed involuntarily.

The croupier raked in the money while he looked on in stupid terror. When he left the table, all made way for him to pass; the cards were shuffled, and the gambling went on.

Herman became a lunatic. He was confined at the hospital at Oboukov, where he spoke to no one, but kept constantly murmuring in a monotonous tone: “The three, seven, ace! The three, seven, queen!”

THE CLOAK

BY NIKOLAI VASILIEVITCH GOGOL

_The naturalistic movement, which took its rise in France with Balzac and Mérimée, was represented in Russia by Gogol (born 1809, died 1852), who has been called the true founder of the Russian school of fiction. He undoubtedly derived some inspiration from the romantic Poushkin, but, unlike Poushkin, he was of Cossack origin--that is, not pure Russian; he was born in Southwestern Russia, on the borders of Poland. His writings have exerted a great influence on both French and Russian writers. Zola frankly confesses him as his master, and Turgenev has said: “We all came from Gogol’s ‘Cloak.’” Over and above the constant observation of life on which his work is based, and the remarkable ability he possessed to present his facts in a simple, natural manner, there is always the understanding and sympathy of a big-hearted man of the people._

THE CLOAK
BY NIKOLAI GOGOL

In the department of--but it is better not to mention the department. There is nothing more irritable than departments, regiments, courts of justice, and, in a word, every branch of public service. Each individual attached to them nowadays thinks all society insulted in his person. Quite recently a complaint was received from a justice of the peace, 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 justice of the peace is made to appear about once in every ten lines, and sometimes in a 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 high one, it must be allowed--short of stature, somewhat pock-marked, red-haired, and short-sighted, with a bald forehead, wrinkled cheeks, and a complexion of the kind known as sanguine. The St. Petersburg climate was responsible for this. As for his official status, he was what is called a perpetual titular councilor, over which some writers make merry and crack their jokes, obeying the praiseworthy custom of attacking those who can not bite back.

His family name was Bashmatchkin. This name is evidently derived from _bashmak_ (shoe); but when, at what time, and in what manner, is not known. His father and grandfather, and all the Bashmatchkins, always wore boots, which only had new heels two or three times a year. His name was Akakiy Akakievitch. 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.

Akakiy Akakievitch was born, if my memory fails me not, in the evening on the 23d of March. His mother, the wife of a Government official, and a very fine woman, made all due arrangements for having the child baptized. She was lying on the bed opposite the door; on her right stood the godfather, Iván Ivanovitch Eroshkin, a most estimable man, who served as presiding officer of the senate; and the godmother, Anna Semenovna Byelobrushkova, the wife of an officer of the quarter, and a woman of rare virtues. They offered the mother her choice of three names, Mokiya, Sossiya, or that the child should be called after the martyr Khozdazat. “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, Triphiliy, Dula, and Varakhasiy. “This is a judgment,” said the old woman. “What names! I truly never heard the like. Varadat or Varukh might have been borne, but not Triphiliy and Varakhasiy!” They turned to another page and found Pavsikakhiy and Vakhtisiy. “Now I see,” said the old woman, “that it is plainly fate. And since such is the case, it will be better to name him after his father. His father’s name was Akakiy, so let his son’s be Akakiy too.” In this manner he became Akakiy Akakievitch. They christened the child, whereat he wept, and made a grimace, as though he foresaw that he was to be a titular councilor.

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; so that it was afterward affirmed that he had been born in undress 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 subchief would thrust a paper under his nose without so much as saying “Copy,” or “Here’s a nice, interesting affair,” or anything else agreeable, as is customary among 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; simply took it, and set about copying it.

The young officials laughed at and 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 Akakiy Akakievitch 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 all these annoyances he never made a single mistake in a letter. But if the joking became wholly unbearable, as when they jogged his hand, 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 that one young man, a newcomer, who, taking pattern by the others, had permitted himself to make sport of Akakiy, 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 well-bred and polite men. Long afterward, in his gayest moments, there recurred to his mind the little official with the bald forehead, with his heart-rending 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 afterward, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage coarseness is concealed beneath delicate, refined worldliness, and even, O God! in that man whom the world acknowledges as honorable and noble.

It would be difficult to find another man who lived so entirely for his duties. It is not enough to say that Akakiy 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 councilor of state. But he worked, as his companions, the wits, put it, like a horse in a mill.

Moreover, it is impossible 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 undress 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 those plaster cats which wag their heads and are carried about upon the heads of scores of image sellers. 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 a 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 in the street; while it is well known that his young brother officials train the range of their glances till they can see when any one’s trouser-straps come undone upon the opposite sidewalk, which always brings a malicious smile to their faces. But Akakiy Akakievitch 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 a page, but in the middle of the street.

On reaching home he sat down at once at the table, supped 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. His stomach filled, 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 gray 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 departmental jar of pens, running to and fro from 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 theatre; another into the street, looking under all 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 fourth or third floor, in two small rooms with an anteroom 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 whist as they sip their tea from glasses with a kopek’s 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 tails of the horses on the Falconet Monument had been cut off, when all strive to divert themselves, Akakiy Akakievitch indulged in no kind of diversion. No one could ever 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, who, with a 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 ills strewn along the path of life for titular councilors as well as for private, actual, court, and every other species of councilor, even for 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 councilors are sometimes quite unprotected. Their only salvation lies 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.

Akakiy Akakievitch had felt for some time that his back and shoulders suffered 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 Akakiy Akakievitch’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; its collar diminishing year by year, but serving 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, Akakiy Akakievitch decided that it would be necessary to take the cloak to Petrovitch, the tailor, who lived somewhere on the fourth floor, up a dark staircase, and who, in spite of his having but one eye, and pock-marks all over his face, busied himself 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 tailor; 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 Petrovitch the tailor. At first he was called only Grigoriy, and was some gentleman’s serf; he commenced calling himself Petrovitch 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 a 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 Petrovitch has a wife, who wears a cap and a dress, but can 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 Petrovitch’s room--which staircase was all soaked with dish-water 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, Akakiy Akakievitch pondered how much Petrovitch 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. Akakiy Akakievitch passed through the kitchen unperceived, even by the housewife, and at length reached a room where he beheld Petrovitch 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’s shell. About Petrovitch’s neck hung a skein of silk and thread, and upon his knees lay some old 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!”

Akakiy Akakievitch was vexed at arriving at the precise moment when Petrovitch was angry; he liked to order something of Petrovitch when the latter was a little downhearted, or, as his wife expressed it, “when he had settled himself with brandy, the one-eyed devil!” Under such circumstances, Petrovitch generally came down in his price very readily, and even bowed and returned thanks. Afterward, to be sure, his wife would come, complaining that her husband was drunk, and so had fixed the price too low; but if only a ten-kopek piece were added, then the matter was settled. But now it appeared that Petrovitch was in a sober condition, and therefore rough, taciturn, and inclined to demand, Satan only knows what price. Akakiy Akakievitch felt this, and would gladly have beat a retreat; but he was in for it. Petrovitch screwed up his one eye very intently at him; and Akakiy Akakievitch involuntarily said: “How do you do, Petrovitch?”

“I wish you a good-morning, sir,” said Petrovitch, squinting at Akakiy Akakievitch’s hands, to see what sort of booty he had brought.

“Ah! I--to you, Petrovitch, this--” It must be known that Akakiy Akakievitch 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 that he had already finished it.

“What is it?” asked Petrovitch, and with his one eye scanned Akakievitch’s whole uniform from the collar down to the cuffs, the back, the tails, and the button-holes, 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, here, this--Petrovitch--a 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 this shoulder it is a little--do you see? that is all. And a little work--”

Petrovitch took the cloak, spread it out, to begin with, on the table, looked hard at it, shook his head, reached out his hand to the window-sill for his 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, and a square bit of paper had been pasted over it. Having taken a pinch of snuff, Petrovitch held up the cloak, and inspected it against the light, and again shook his head. Then he turned it, lining upward, 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, closed and put away the snuff-box, and said finally, “No, it is impossible to mend it; it’s a wretched garment!”

Akakiy Akakievitch’s heart sank at these words.