Original subtitles

LENFILM

Aleksandr Sergeyevich PUSHKIN

THE QUEEN OF SPADES

Narrator Alla DEMIDOVA

The Queen of Spades

denotes secret ill-will.

From the latest Fortune-Teller.

Chapter I

In the cold, rain, and sleet They together would meet

To play.

Lord, forgive them their sin: Gambling, late to win

They'd stay.

They won and they lost, And put down the cost

In chalk.

So on cold autumn days They wasted no time

In talk.

There was a card party

at the rooms of Narumov of the Horse Guards.

The winter night passed quickly;

they had supper as late as 5 am.

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 took a part in it.

And how did you fare, Surin?

asked the host.

Oh, I lost, as usual.

I must confess that I am unlucky:

I play mirandole, 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 Hermann?

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,

said Hermann:

but I am not in the position to sacrifice the necessary

in the hope of winning the superfluous.

Hermann is a German:

he is economical - that is all!

observed Tomsky.

But if there is one person that I cannot understand,

it is my grandmother, the Countess Anna Fedotovna.

How so?

I cannot understand, how it is that my grandmother

does not punt.

What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not punting?

Then you do not know the reason why?

No, really; haven't the faintest idea.

Oh! then listen.

About sixty 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 at faro.

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;

brought the counts,

and told her that she had spent half a million francs,

they had neither their Moscow

and nor Saratov estates Paris, refused 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 is a great difference between a Prince and a coachmaker.

But it was all in vain, my grandfather still remained obdurate.

My grandmother did not know what to do.

She had shortly before become acquainted with a very remarkable man.

You have heard of Count St. Germain,

about whom so many marvellous 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, St. 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 any one speaks disrespectfully of him.

My grandmother knew that St. 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 colours the barbarity of her husband,

and ended by declaring that her whole hope depended

upon his friendship and amiability.

St. 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 St. Germain:

'be 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 au jeu de la Reine

The Duke of Orleans kept the bank;

my grandmother excused herself in an off-hand 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 sonika,

and my grandmother recovered every farthing that she had lost.

Mere chance!

A tale!

Perhaps they were marked cards!

I do not think so.

What! 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!

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 heard from my uncle, Count Ivan Ilyich,

and he assured me, on his honour, that it was true.

The late Chaplitzky -

the same who died in poverty after having squandered millions -

once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand roubles -

to Zorich, 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 Chaplitzky. She gave him three cards,

telling him to play them one after the other, at the same time exacting from him

a solemn promise that he would never play at cards again as long as he lived.

Chaplitzky then went to his victorious opponent, and they began a fresh game.

On the first card he staked fifty thousand rubles

and won sonika;

he doubled the stake and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same tactics,

he won back more than he had lost...

But it is time to go to bed:

it is a quarter to six already.

And indeed it was already beginning to dawn:

the young men emptied their glasses

and then took leave of each other.

Chapter II

It appears, Monsieur, that you clearly prefer the maids.

Would you wish me otherwise, Madame? They are much fresher.

A Society Conversation.

The old Countess was seated in her dressing-room in front of her looking-glass.

Three waiting maids stood around her.

One held a small pot of rouge, another a box of hair-pins,

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 seventy years before,

and made as long and as careful a toilette as she would have done

sixty years previously.

Near the window, at an embroidery frame,

sat a young lady, her ward.

Good morning, grandmamma,

said a young officer, entering the room.

Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise.

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 direct to the ball and introduce him to me there.

Were you at... yesterday?

Yes; everything went off very pleasantly,

and dancing was kept up until five o'clock.

How charming Yeletzkaya was!

But, my dear, what is there charming about her?

Isn't she like her grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna?

Incidentally:

she must have grown old, the Princess Daria Petrovna.

How do you mean, old? she died seven years ago.

The young lady gave a sign to the young man.

He remembered that the Countess had never to been told about their death

and he bit his lips.

But the old Countess heard the news

with the greatest indifference.

Dead!

and I did not know it.

We were appointed maids of honour at the same time,

and when we were presented to the Empress...

And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her grandson one of her anecdotes.

Then she said,

Come, Paul, help me to get up.

Lizanka, where is my snuff-box?

And the Countess with her three maids went behind a screen to finish her toilette.

Tomsky was left alone with the young lady.

Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Countess?

Narumov.

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 that he was in the Engineers?

The young lady smiled, but made no reply.

Paul!

send me some new novel, only pray don't let it be one of the present day style.

What do you mean, grandmother?

That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his father nor his mother,

and in which there are no drowned bodies.

I have a great horror of drowned persons.

There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a Russian one?

Are there any Russian novels?

Send me one, my dear, pray send me one!

Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry...

Good-bye, Lizaveta Ivanovna.

What made you think that Narumov was in the Engineers?

And Tomsky left the boudoir.

Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone:

she laid aside her work and began to look out of 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, we will go out for a drive.

What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?

Order the carriage to be got ready at once.

I will do so this moment.

Madam! Some books from Paul Aleksandrovich for you!

Tell him that I am much obliged to him.

Lizaveta! Lizaveta! Where are you running to?

I am going to dress.

There is 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!

What is 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,

what a lot of nonsense!

Send it back to Prince Paul with my thanks...

But where is the carriage?

The carriage is ready.

How is it that you are not dressed?

I must always wait for you.

It is intolerable, my dear!

How is it that you cannot hear me when I ring for you?

Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna that I am waiting for her..

At last you are here!

But why such an elaborate toilette?

Whom do you intend to captivate?

What sort of weather is it? It seems rather windy.

No, your Ladyship, it is very calm.

You never think of what you are talking about.

Open the window.

So it is: windy and bitterly cold.

Unharness the horses.

Lizaveta, we won't go out - there was no need for you to deck yourself like that.

"What a life is mine!" thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.

And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate creature.

"The bread of the stranger is bitter," says Dante,

"and his 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 had by no means a bad heart,

bat she was capricious, like a woman who had been spoilt 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 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 ball-room;

all the guests on entering approached her and made a profound bow,

as if in accordance with a set ceremony,

but after that nobody took any further notice of her.

She received the whole town at her house, although...

she could no longer recognise the faces of people.

Her numerous domestics,

growing fat and old in her ante-chamber and servants' hall,

did just as they liked,

and vied with each other in robbing the aged Countess..

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 held answerable for the weather or the state of the pavement.

A salary was attached to the post, but she very rarely received it,

although she was expected to dress like everybody else,

that is to say, like very few indeed.

In society she played the most pitiable role.

Everybody knew her,

and nobody paid her any attention.

At balls 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,

honoured her with but very little attention,

although Lizaveta Ivanovna was a hundred times prettier than

the bare-faced and cold-hearted marriageable girls around whom they hovered.

Many a time

did she quietly slink away from the glittering but wearisome 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 feebly in a copper candle-stick.

One morning -

this was about two days after the evening party described at the beginning of this story,

and a week previous to the scene at which we have just assisted -

One morning Lizaveta Ivanovna was seated near the window at her embroidery frame,

when, happening to look out into the street, she caught sight of a young Engineer officer,

standing motionless with his eyes fixed upon her window.

She lowered her head and went on again with her work.

About five minutes afterwards she looked out again -

the young officer was still standing in the same place.

Not being in the habit of coquetting 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 of the window,

she perceived the officer again.

This seemed to her very strange.

After dinner she went to the window with a certain feeling of uneasiness,

but the officer was no longer there -

and she thought no more about him.

A couple of days afterwards,

just as she was stepping into the carriage with the Countess, she saw him again.

He was standing close behind the door, with his face half-concealed by his fur collar,

but his dark eyes sparkled beneath his cap.

Lizaveta felt alarmed, though she knew not why,

and she trembled as she seated herself in the carriage.

On returning home, she hastened to the window -

the officer was standing in his accustomed 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

without the young officer making his appearance

under the window at the customary hour,

and between him and her there was established a sort of mute acquaintance.

Sitting in her place at work,

she used to feel his approach;

and raising her head,

she would look at him longer and longer

each day.

The young man seemed to be very grateful to her:

she saw with the sharp eye of youth,

how a sudden flush covered his pale cheeks each time

that their glances met.

After about a week she commenced to smile at him...

When Tomsky asked for permission to introduce his friend to the Countess,

the girl began to fret

But hearing that Narumov was a guardsman,

she regretted that she had opened her secret to the Tomsky.

Hermann was the son of a German

who had become a naturalised Russian, and from whom he had inherited a small capital.

Being firmly convinced

of the necessity of preserving his independence,

Hermann 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 rarely 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 errors of young men.

Thus, though a gamester at heart,

he never touched a card,

for he considered his position did not allow him - as he said -

"to risk the necessary in the 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 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 favour -

become her lover...

But all that will take time, and she is 87 years old:

she might be dead in a week, in a couple of days even!...

But the story itself:

can it really be true?...

No!

Economy, temperance and industry: those are my three winning cards;

by means of them I shall be able to double my capital - increase it sevenfold,

and procure for myself ease and independence.

Musing in this manner,

he walked on until he found himself in one of the principal streets of St. Petersburg,

in front of a house of antiquated architecture.

The street was blocked

the carriages drew up to the doorway.

Now a little foot of a young beauty showed from the carriage,

now the boot of a cavalry officer, now a silk stocking

and the shoes of a diplomat.

Fur coats and raincoats flashed before the porter.

Hermann stopped.

- Who's house is this? - The Countess �nna Fedotovna's.

Hermann started.

The strange story again presented itself to his imagination.

He began walking up and down before the house,

thinking of its owner and her strange secret.

Returning late to his modest lodging,

he could not go to sleep for a long time,

and when at last he did doze off, he could dream of nothing but cards,

green tables, piles of banknotes and heaps of ducats.

He played one card after the other, winning uninterruptedly,

and then he gathered up the gold

and filled his pockets with the notes.

When he woke up late the next morning,

be sighed over the loss of his imaginary wealth,

and then sallying out into the town,

he found himself once more in front of the Countess's residence.

Some unknown power seemed to have attracted him thither.

He stopped

and looked up at the windows.

At one of these he saw a head with luxuriant black hair,

which was bent down probably over some book or an embroidery frame.

The head was raised.

Hermann saw a fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes.

That moment decided his fate.

Chapter III

My angel, you write me four-page letters

so fast that I am not able to read them.

A Correspondence

Lizaveta Ivanovna took off her hat and hood,

the Countess sent for her and told her to get the carriage.

They took their seats.

Just at the 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.

Who was that person that met us just now?

What is the name of this bridge?

What is written on that signboard?

What is the matter with you, my dear

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 German, and she was pleased.

But the letter made her feel uneasy.

She was now entering into secret relationship with a young man.

His boldness alarmed her.

She reproached herself for her imprudent behaviour,

and knew not what to do. Should she sit by the window,

and by her indifference to the officer cool his wish for further courting?

Should she send his letter back,

or should she answer him coldly?

There was nobody to turn to,

for she had neither female friend nor adviser...

She decided to respond.

She sat down at her writing-table, and began to think.

She would begin her letter, and then stop:

her words were now too condescending

now too cruel.

She has succeeded in writing a few lines

with which she felt satisfied.

I am convinced,

that your intentions are honourable,

and that you

do not wish

to offend me by any imprudent behaviour,

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 Hermann 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.

Hermann hastened forward, picked it up

and then repaired to a confectioner's shop.

Breaking the seal of the envelope, he found inside it his own letter and Lizaveta's reply.

He had expected this, and he returned home,

his mind deeply occupied with his 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 recognised Hermann's hand-writing.

You have made a mistake, my dear, this letter is not for me.

Oh, yes, it is for you. Have the goodness to read it.

Hermann requested an interview.

She were alarmed

at the audacious request, and the manner in which it was made.

It cannot be! This letter is certainly not for me!

If the letter was not for you, why have you torn it up?

I should have given it back to the person who sent it.

Be good enough, my dear,

not to bring me any more letters for the future,

and tell the person who sent you that he ought to be ashamed...

But Hermann 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.

Hermann wrote them under the inspiration of passion,

and spoke in his own language,

and they bore full testimony to the inflexibility of his desire

and the disordered condition of his uncontrollable imagination.

Lizaveta no longer thought of sending them back to him:

she became intoxicated with them

and began to reply to them,

and little by little her answers became longer and more affectionate.

At last she threw out of the window to him the following letter:

This evening there 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 ante-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 maidservants will all be together in one room.

On leaving the ante-room, turn to the left,

...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;

on the right... the one on the left...

...a little winding staircase;

this leads to my ...

On the right...

On the left...

Hermann 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 in large flakes;

the lamps emitted a feeble light, the streets were deserted;

from time to time a sledge, drawn by a sorry-looking hack,

passed by, on the look-out for a belated passenger.

Hermann was enveloped in a thick overcoat, and felt neither wind nor snow.

At last the Countess's carriage drew up.

Hermann 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 street-door;

the windows became dark.

Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted house;

at length he stopped under a lamp, and glanced at his watch: it was 20 minutes past eleven.

He remained standing under the lamp, his eyes fixed upon the watch,

impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to pass.

At half-past eleven precisely,

Hermann ascended the steps of the house,

and made his way into the brightly-illuminated vestibule.

The porter was not there.

Hermann hastily ascended the staircase, opened the door of the ante-room

and saw a footman sitting asleep in an antique chair by the side of a lamp.

With a light firm step Hermann passed by him.

The drawing-room and dining-room were in darkness,

but a feeble reflection penetrated thither from the lamp in the ante-room.

Hermann 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 man

of about forty years of age in a bright-green uniform and with a 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 worksho of the celebrated Lefroy,

bandboxes, roulettes, fans and the various playthings for the amusement of ladies

that were in vogue at the end of the last century,

when Montgolfier's balloons and Mesmer's magnetism were the rage.

Hermann 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 latter, 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.

The time passed slowly. All was still.

The clock in the drawing-room struck twelve;

the strokes echoed through the room one after the other,

and everything was quiet again.

Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove.

He was calm;

his heart beat regularly, like that of a man resolved upon a dangerous

but inevitable undertaking.

One o'clock in the morning struck; then two;

and he heard the distant noise of carriage-wheels.

An involuntary agitation took possession of him.

The carriage drew near and stopped.

He heard the sound of carriage-steps.

All began to bustle.

They started running

voices resounded,

and it was light.

Three maids entered the room running,

and the Countess, half alive, sank into the armchair.

Hermann peeped through a chink.

Lizaveta Ivanovna 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 off 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.

Hermann was a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her toilette;

at last the Countess was in her night-cap and dressing-gown,

and in this costume, more suitable to her age,

she appeared less hideous and deformed.

Like all old people, the Countess suffered from insomnia.

She undressed, sat down in an armchair and dismissed her maids

The candles were taken out,

there was only one lamp burning in the room.

The Countess sat there looking quite yellow,

mumbling with her flaccid lips and swaying to and fro.

Her dull eyes expressed complete vacancy 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 stood an unknown man.

Do not be alarmed,

for Heaven's sake, do not be alarmed!

I have no intention of doing you any harm,

I have only come to ask a favour of you.

I have only come to ask a favour of you.

Do not be alarmed!

You can insure the happiness of my life,

and it will cost you nothing.

I know that you can name three cards in order ...

It was a joke,

I assure you it was only a joke.

There is no joking about the matter.

Remember Chaplitzky, whom you helped to win.

Can you not name me these three winning cards?

For whom are you preserving your secret? For your grandsons?

They are 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 his service.

I am not a man of that sort;

I know the value of money.

Your three cards will not be thrown away upon me.

Come!..

If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,

if you remember its rapture,

if you have ever smiled at the cry of your new-born 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 that is most sacred in life,

not to reject my prayer.

Reveal to me your secret.

Of what use is it to you?...

May be 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. 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...

You old hag!

then I will make you answer!

Come, an end to this childish nonsense!

I ask you for the last time:

will you tell me the names of your three cards,

or will you not?

The Countess made no reply.

Hermann perceived

that she was dead!

Chapter IV

7 ��� 18**. May 7, 18**.

A man without morals

or religion. - A Correspondence.

Lizaveta Ivanovna was in her room,

still in her ball dress, lost in thought.

On returning home, she dismissed the chambermaid

who reluctantly came over to help her,

said that she would undress herself, and with a trembling heart went to her room,

hoping to find Hermann there, yet wishing 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 of his letters;

she had never spoken to him, had never heard his voice,

and had never heard him spoken of

until that evening.

But, strange to say,

that very evening at the ball,

Tomsky, being piqued with the young Princess Pauline,

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 an endless mazurka with her.

During the whole of the time he kept teasing her about her partiality for Engineer officers;

he assured her that he knew far more than she imagined,

and some of his jests were so happily aimed,

that Lizaveta thought several times

that her secret was known to him.

From whom have you learnt all this?

From a friend of a person very well known to you - a very distinguished man.

- And who is this distinguished man? - His name is Hermann.

This Hermann, is a man of romantic personality.

He has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles.

I believe that he has at least three crimes upon his conscience...

How pale you have become!.. - I have a headache...

But what did this Hermann - or whatever his name is - tell you

Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend:

he says that in his place he would act very differently...

I even think that Hermann 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,

for there is nothing that he...

Three ladies approaching him with the question: "oubliou regret?" interrupted the conversation,

which had become so tantalisingly interesting to Lizaveta.

The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline herself.

She managed to speak to him by making another round,

by turning round in front of her chair.

On returning to his place,

Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or Lizaveta.

She longed to renew the interrupted conversation,

but the mazurka 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, was very much like the image

she made up in her mind,

and thanks to the latest romances, it was a trivial face

frightened her and fascinated her imagination.

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 Hermann entered.

She shuddered.

Where were you?

In the old Countess's bedroom.

I have just left her. The Countess is dead.

My God! What do you say?

And I am afraid, 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!"

Hermann sat down by the window near her, and related all that had happened.

Lizaveta listened to him in terror.

So all those 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.

I had been nothing but the blind tool of a robber,

of the murderer of my aged benefactress!..

She wept bitter tears of agonised repentance.

Hermann gazed at her in silence:

his heart, too, was a prey to violent emotion,

but neither the tears of the poor girl,

nor the wonderful charm of her beauty 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 are a monster!

I did not wish for her death, 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 Hermann:

he was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed and with a fierce frown upon his forehead.

In this attitude he bore

a striking resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon.

This resemblance struck Lizaveta even.

How shall I get you out of the house?

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 am afraid.

Tell me how to find this secret staircase -

I will go alone.

Hermann pressed her cold, limp hand,

kissed her bowed head, and left the room.

He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the Countess's bedroom.

The dead old lady sat as if petrified;

her face expressed profound tranquillity.

Hermann 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, perhaps coming from the very same room,

and at this very same hour sixty years ago, there may have glided,

in an embroidered coat, with his hair dressed a l'oiseau royal

and pressing to his heart his three-cornered hat, some young gallant,

who has long been mouldering in the grave,

but the heart of his aged mistress

has only to-day ceased to beat...

At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened with a key,

and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the street.

Chapter V

That night the dead Baroness von W. appeared to me

She was all in white and said:

'How do you do, Mr. Councillor?' - Swedenborg.

Three days after the fatal night, at nine o'clock in the morning,

Hermann repaired to the Convent,

where the last honours 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 the 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 Hermann made his way through the crowd of people.

The coffin was placed upon a rich catafalque beneath a velvet baldachin.

The deceased Countess lay within it, with her hands crossed upon her breast,

with a lace cap upon her head and dressed in a white satin robe.

Around the catafalque stood the members of her household:

the servants in black caftans, with armorial ribbons upon their shoulders, and candles in their hands;

the relatives - children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren - in deep mourning.

Nobody wept; tears would have been une 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, who had passed long years

in calm preparation for a Christian end.

The angel of death found her,

engaged in pious meditation

and waiting for the midnight bridegroom.

The service concluded amidst profound silence.

The relatives went forward 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 strength enough to bow down to the ground -

she merely shed a few tears

and kissed the cold hand of her mistress.

Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin.

He knelt down upon the cold stones

and remained in that position for some minutes;

at last he arose, as pale as the deceased Countess herself;

he ascended the steps of the catafalque

and bent over the corpse...

At that moment

it seemed to him

that the dead woman darted a mocking look at him

and winked with one eye.

Hermann started back, took a false step

and fell to the ground.

Several persons raised him up.

At the same moment Lizaveta Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of the church.

This episode

disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the gloomy ceremony.

Among the congregation arose a deep murmur,

and a tall thin chamberlain, a near relative of the deceased,

whispered in the ear of an Englishman who was standing near him,

that the young officer was a natural son of the Countess,

to which the Englishman coldly replied: "Oh!"

During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely excited.

Repairing to an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, he drank a great deal of wine,

contrary to his usual custom, in 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 a quarter to three.

Sleep had left him;

he sat down upon his bed

and thought of the funeral of the old Countess.

At that moment

somebody in the street looked in at his window,

and immediately passed on again.

Hermann paid no attention to this incident.

A few moments afterwards he heard the door of his ante-room open.

Hermann thought that it was his orderly,

drunk as usual, returning from some nocturnal expedition,

but presently he heard footsteps that were unknown to him:

somebody was walking

softly over the floor in slippers.

The door opened,

and a woman dressed in white, entered the room.

Hermann mistook her for his old nurse,

and wondered what could bring her there at that hour of the night.

But the white woman

glided rapidly across the room

and stood before him -

and Hermann recognised the Countess!

I have come to you against my wish,

but I have been ordered to grant your request.

Three, seven, ace,

will win for you if played in succession,

but only on these conditions:

that you do not play more

than one card in twenty-four hours,

and that you never play again during the rest of your life.

I forgive you my death,

on condition that you marry

my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna...

With these words

she turned round very quietly,

walked with a shuffling gait towards the door

and disappeared.

Hermann heard the street-door open and shut,

and again he saw some one look in at him through the window.

For a long time Hermann could not recover himself.

He then rose up and entered the next 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 from him.

The street-door was locked.

Hermann returned to his room,

lit his candle,

and wrote down all the details of his vision.

Chapter VI

"Attendez!" "How dare you say 'attendez' to me?"

"Your excellency, I said 'attendez, sir'"

Two fixed ideas

can no more exist together in the moral world

than two bodies can occupy one and the same place

in the physical world.

"Three, seven, ace,"

soon drove out of Hermann's mind the thought of the dead Countess.

"Three, seven, ace," 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 him 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 gamesters,

presided over by the celebrated Chekalinsky,

who had passed all his life at the card-table

and had amassed millions,

accepting bills of exchange for his winnings and paying his losses in ready money.

His long experience secured for him the confidence of his companions,

and his open house, his famous cook, and his agreeable and fascinating manners

gained for him the respect of the public.

He came to St. Petersburg.

The young men of the capital flocked to his rooms, forgetting balls for cards,

and preferring the emotions of faro to the seductions of flirting.

Narumov conducted Hermann to Chekalinsky's residence.

They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled with attentive domestics.

Generals and Privy Counsellors were playing at whist;

young men were lolling carelessly upon the velvet-covered sofas,

eating ices and smoking pipes.

In the drawing-room, at the head of a long table,

around which were assembled about a score of players,

sat the master of the house keeping the 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, florid countenance expressed good-nature,

and his eyes twinkled with a perpetual smile.

Narumov introduced Hermann to him.

Chekalinsky shook him by the hand in a friendly manner,

requested him not to stand on ceremony, and then went on dealing.

The game lasted long.

There were over thirty cards on the table.

Chekalinsky paused after each throw,

in order to let the players to arrange the cards

and wrote down the losses, listening to their requests,

and politely put straight the corners of cards that some player had bent.

The game was over now.

Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.

Let me stake.

Yes.

Happy absolution!

Good luck!

Stake!

How much?

excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly.

47,000 rubles.

At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round,

and all eyes were fixed upon Hermann.

"He has taken leave of his senses!" thought Narumov.

Allow me to inform you, that you are playing very high;

nobody here has ever staked more than 275 rubles at once.

Very well,

but do you accept my card or not?

I only wish to say,

that although I trust my friends,

I can only play against ready money.

As for me, I am quite sure

that your word is enough,

but as a formality, I ask you to stake the money.

I have won!

Do you wish me to settle with you?

If you please.

Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of banknotes

and paid at once.

Hermann took up his money and left the table.

Narumov could not recover from his astonishment.

Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and returned home.

The next evening he appeared at Chekalinsky's again.

The host was dealing.

Hermann walked up to the table; the punters made room for him.

Chekalinsky greeted him with a gracious bow.

Hermann waited for the next deal and staked.

47,000 rubles all in all and his previous winning.

Chekalinsky began to deal.

A knave turned up on the right,

a seven on the left.

Hermann showed his...

seven.

There was a general exclamation.

Chekalinsky was evidently ill at ease,

but he counted out 94.000 rubles and handed them over to Hermann,

who pocketed them in the coolest manner possible

and immediately left the house.

The next evening Hermann appeared again at the table.

Every one was expecting him.

The generals and Privy Counsellors left their whist

in order to watch such extraordinary play.

The young officers quitted their sofas,

and even the servants crowded into the room. All pressed round Hermann.

The other players left off punting,

impatient to see how it would end.

Hermann stood at the table and prepared to play alone against the pale,

but still smiling Chekalinsky.

Each opened a pack of cards.

Chekalinsky shuffled.

Hermann took a card and covered it with a pile of bank-notes.

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!

Your queen has lost.

Instead of an ace,

there lay before him the queen of spades!

He could not believe his eyes,

nor could he understand how he had 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!

Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings.

Hermann remained perfectly motionless.

When at last he left the table,

there was a general commotion in the room.

"Splendidly punted!" said the players.

Chekalinsky shuffled the cards afresh,

and the game went on as usual.

EPILOGUE

Hermann went out of his mind,

and is now confined in room Number 17 of the Obukhov Hospital.

He never answers any questions,

but he constantly mutters with unusual rapidity:

"Three, seven, ace!" "Three, seven, queen!"

Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man,

a son of the former steward of the old Countess.

He is in the service of the State somewhere, and is in receipt of a good income.

Lizaveta is also supporting a poor relative.

Tomsky

has been promoted to the rank of captain,

and has become the husband of the Princess Pauline.

Cast:

Engineer Hermann Viktor PROSKURIN

Lizaveta Ivanovna Irina DYMCHENKO

Countess Anna Fedotovna Yelena GLAGOLEVA

Tomsky Vitaly SOLOMIN

Chekalinsky Innokenty SMOKTUNOVSKY

Narumov Konstantin GRIGORYEV

Surin Alexander ZAKHAROV

A. PINTOVSKAYA, V. BOGDANOV, Ye. GRADOV

Music by Dmitry BORTYANSKY

Directed by Igor MASLENNIKOV

Director of Photography Yury VEKSLER

Production Designer Isaak KAPLAN

Costume Designer Nelli LEV

Sound Engineer Asya ZVEREVA

Translation by Natalie Duddington and Alec Vagapov

Subtitles by Boris Bulgakov

The End