LAST LETTER.
Oh, my friend, don't look at the end of this letter before you have read the beginning. Take your share of my griefs, my vicissitudes, and my joys, by following their natural course.
The operation took place a fortnight ago. A trembling hand was placed upon my eyes. I uttered two piercing cries; then I seemed to see day, light, colour, sun. Then instantaneously a bandage was replaced upon my burning forehead. I was cured! only a little patience and a little courage were required. Edmond had restored me to the sweetness of life.
But, must I confess it? I did a foolish thing. I disobeyed my doctor—he will not know it: besides, there is no danger in my rashness now. They had brought me my little one to kiss. Nicette was holding her in her lap. The child said in her soft voice, "Mamma!" I could resist no longer. I tore off the bandage.
"My child! oh, how lovely she is!" I cried out. "I see her! oh, I see her!"
Nicette quickly put the bandage on again. But I was no longer lonely in the darkness. This cherub face, restored by memory, from that moment lighted up my night.
Yesterday my mother came to dress me. We were long over my toilette. I had on a beautiful silk dress, a lace collar, my hair dressed à la Marie Stuart. When my arrangements were complete, my mother said to me:—
"Take off the bandage."
I obeyed, and though only a twilight prevailed in the room, I thought that I had never seen anything so beautiful. I pressed to my heart my mother, my father, and my child.
"You have seen," said my father, "everybody but yourself."
"And my husband," I cried out, "where is my husband?"
"He is hiding," said my mother.
Then I remembered his ugliness, his attire, his thin hair, and his scarred face.
"Poor dear Edmond," I said, "let him come to me. He is more beautiful than Adonis."
"While we are waiting for your lord and master," mamma answered, "admire yourself; look in the glass. You may admire yourself for a long time without blame, if you are to make up for lost time."
I obeyed; a little from vanity, a little from curiosity. What if I was ugly? What if my plainness, like my poverty, had been concealed from me? They led me to my pier-glass. I uttered a cry of joy. With my slender figure, my complexion like a rose, my eyes a little dazed, and like two shimmering sapphires, I was charming. Nevertheless, I could not look at myself quite at my ease, for the glass was trembling without cessation, and my image reflected on its brilliant surface seemed as if it danced for joy.
I looked behind the glass to see what made it tremble.
A young man came out—a fine young man, with large black eyes and striking figure, whose coat was adorned by the rosette of the Legion of Honour. I blushed to think that I had been so foolish in the presence of a stranger.
"Just look," said my mother to me, without taking any notice of him, "how fair you are; like a white rose."
"Mamma!" I cried.
"Only look at these white arms," and she pulled my sleeves above the elbow without the smallest scruple.
"But, mamma," I said, "what are you thinking of, before a stranger!"
"A stranger? it is a mirror."
"I don't mean the glass, but this young gentleman who was behind it, like a lover in a comedy."
"Eh! goose," cried my father, "you need not be so bashful. It is your husband."
"Edmond!" I cried out, and made a step forward to embrace him.
Then I fell back. He was so beautiful! I was so happy! Blind, I had loved in confidence. What made my heart beat now was a new love, swollen by the generosity of this truly noble man, who had ordered everyone to say that he was ugly, in order to console me for my blindness.
Edmond fell at my knees. Mamma put me in his arms, as she wiped away her tears.
"How lovely you are," said my husband to me, in an ecstasy.
"Flatterer!" I answered, looking down at him.
"No, when I alone was your mirror I always told you so—and see! my colleague, here, whom you have just consulted, is of the same opinion, and declares that I am right!"
[Fac-simile of the Notes of a Sermon by Cardinal Manning.]
By the kindness of Cardinal Manning, we are able to present our readers with a fac-simile of the Cardinal's synopsis of a sermon on Charity, preached on the 9th of July, 1890, in the chapel of the Sisters of Charity, Carlisle Place, Westminster. The fac-simile shows the Cardinal's handwriting at the age of 83, and also his peculiar method of jotting down his notes on long, narrow slips, two of which are here given to a page. These notes are for a sermon of an hour's duration.
[The Queen of Spades.]
Translated from the Russian of Alexander Pushkin.
[Alexander Sergeivitch Pushkin, the first of the great Russian writers, was born at Moscow on Ascension Day, 1799. His father was a Russian nobleman, an officer, a courtier, and a wit, but so fiery-tempered that he threw up his commission in a rage at being reprimanded on parade for having used his cane to poke the fire. Pushkin's mother was the granddaughter of a negro slave named Abraham Hannibal, whom Peter the Great had made a favourite and at last had raised to be an admiral—a piece of history stranger than romance. Pushkin's African descent was visible in his appearance—in his crisp black hair, his irregular though mobile features, and his swarthy skin. At school he hated work—his sums always made him cry—and he was the ringleader in every prank. When scarcely yet of age he wrote an "Ode to Liberty," for which he was condemned to exile in Bessarabia. There for some years he continued to pour forth the lofty, fiery, and romantic poems which have caused him to be termed the Byron of the North. Besides his poems Pushkin also wrote a striking volume of prose stories, from which "The Queen of Spades" is taken. When Nicholas was crowned he was recalled to Court, and in 1831 he married. For five years he lived in happiness; but the husband of his wife's sister, who was named George Danthès, preferred the wife of Pushkin to his own. Pushkin, who was as jealous as Othello, challenged Danthès to a duel. On the 29th of January, 1837, the brothers-in-law met with pistols at six paces, and Pushkin was shot through the body. Two days afterwards he breathed his last. He was buried, at his own desire, at a monastery near his early home, where his grave is still denoted by a cross of marble, bearing simply the initials A. S. P.]
The Queen of Spades denotes ill-luck.
Complete Fortune-Teller.
here was a card party at the rooms of Naroumoff, a lieutenant in the Horse Guards. A long winter night had passed unnoticed, and it was five o'clock in the morning when supper was served. The winners sat down to table with an excellent appetite; the losers let their plates remain empty before them. Little by little, however, with the assistance of the champagne, the conversation became animated, and was shared by all.
"How did you get on this evening, Surin?" said the host to one of his friends.
"Oh, I lost, as usual. I really have no luck. I play mirandole. You know that I keep cool. Nothing moves me; I never change my play, and yet I always lose."
"Do you mean to say that all the evening you did not once back the red? Your firmness of character surprises me."
"What do you think of Hermann?" said one of the party, pointing to a young Engineer officer. "That fellow never made a bet or touched a card in his life, and yet he watches us playing until five in the morning."
"It interests me," said Hermann; "but I am not disposed to risk the necessary in view of the superfluous."
"Hermann is a German, and economical; that is the whole of the secret," cried Tomski. "But what is really astonishing is the Countess Anna Fedotovna!"
"How so?" asked several voices.
"Have you not remarked," said Tomski, "that she never plays?"
"Yes," said Naroumoff, "a woman of eighty, who never touches a card; that is indeed something extraordinary!"
"You do not know why?"
"No; is there a reason for it?"
"Just listen. My grandmother, you know, some sixty years ago, went to Paris, and became the rage there. People ran after her in the streets, and called her the 'Muscovite Venus.' Richelieu made love to her, and my grandmother makes out that, by her rigorous demeanour, she almost drove him to suicide. In those days women used to play at faro. One evening at the Court she lost, on parole, to the Duke of Orleans, a very considerable sum. When she got home, my grandmother removed her beauty-spots, took off her hoops, and in this tragic costume went to my grandfather, told him of her misfortune, and asked him for the money she had to pay. My grandfather, now no more, was, so to say, his wife's steward. He feared her like fire; but the sum she named made him leap into the air. He flew into a rage, made a brief calculation, and proved to my grandmother that in six months she had got through half a million roubles. He told her plainly that he had no villages to sell in Paris, his domains being situated in the neighbourhood of Moscow and of Saratoff; and finally refused point blank. You may imagine the fury of my grandmother. She boxed his ears, and passed the night in another room.
"The next day she returned to the charge. For the first time in her life, she condescended to arguments and explanations. In vain did she try to prove to her husband that there were debts and debts, and that she could not treat a Prince of the blood like her coachmaker.
"All this eloquence was lost. My grandfather was inflexible. My grandmother did not know where to turn. Happily she was acquainted with a man who was very celebrated at this time. You have heard of the Count of St. Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories were told. You know that he passed for a sort of Wandering Jew, and that he was said to possess an elixir of life and the philosopher's stone.
"Some people laughed at him as a charlatan. Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. However that may be, in spite of the mystery of his life, St. Germain was much sought after in good society, and was really an agreeable man. Even to this day my grandmother has preserved a genuine affection for him, and she becomes quite angry when anyone speaks of him with disrespect.
"It occurred to her that he might be able to advance the sum of which she was in need, and she wrote a note begging him to call. The old magician came at once, and found her plunged in the deepest despair. In two or three words she told him everything; related to him her misfortune and the cruelty of her husband, adding that she had no hope except in his friendship and his obliging disposition.
"'Madam,' said St. Germain, after a few moments' reflection, 'I could easily advance you the money you want, but I am sure that you would have no rest until you had repaid me, and I do not want to get you out of one trouble in order to place you in another. There is another way of settling the matter. You must regain the money you have lost.'
"'But, my dear friend,' answered my grandmother, 'I have already told you that I have nothing left.'
"'That does not matter,' answered St. Germain. 'Listen to me, and I will explain.'
"He then communicated to her a secret which any of you would, I am sure, give a good deal to possess."
All the young officers gave their full attention. Tomski stopped to light his Turkish pipe, swallowed a mouthful of smoke, and then went on.
"That very evening my grandmother went to Versailles to play at the Queen's table. The Duke Of Orleans held the bank. My grandmother invented a little story by way of excuse for not having paid her debt, and then sat down at the table, and began to stake. She took three cards. She won with the first; doubled her stake on the second, and won again; doubled on the third, and still won."
"Mere luck!" said one of the young officers.
"What a tale!" cried Hermann.
"Were the cards marked?" said a third.
"I don't think so," replied Tomski, gravely.
"And you mean to say," exclaimed Naroumoff, "that you have a grandmother who knows the names of three winning cards, and you have never made her tell them to you?"
"That is the very deuce of it," answered Tomski. "She had three sons, of whom my father was one; all three were determined gamblers, and not one of them was able to extract her secret from her, though it would have been of immense advantage to them, and to me also. Listen to what my uncle told me about it, Count Ivan Ilitch, and he told me on his word of honour.
"Tchaplitzki—the one you remember who died in poverty after devouring millions—lost one day, when he was a young man, to Zoritch about three hundred thousand roubles. He was in despair. My grandmother, who had no mercy for the extravagance of young men, made an exception—I do not know why—in favour of Tchaplitzki. She gave him three cards, telling him to play them one after the other, and exacting from him at the same time his word of honour that he would never afterwards touch a card as long as he lived. Accordingly Tchaplitzki went to Zoritch and asked for his revenge. On the first card he staked fifty thousand roubles. He won, doubled the stake, and won again. Continuing his system he ended by gaining more than he had lost.
"But it is six o'clock! It is really time to go to bed."
Everyone emptied his glass and the party broke up.