Корнелл Вулрич - A Treasury of Stories (Collection of novelettes and short stories)

(The woman in the backless white gown suddenly thrusts her arm behind her, toward the maid, with three fingers held out to show how much she requires. The maid immediately interrupts her crocheting, pries into the draw-bag, counts out three bank notes, and places them in the waiting hand. The arm returns to the table again.)

Croupier: Nothing more goes. Nothing more.

(Again the clicking sound, again the little snap.)

Croupier: Eleven, red!

(Again the low murmur of mingled voices.)

Croupier: Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.

(Again the arm is thrust out toward the maid. This time all five fingers are extended. They close, then open again, in a grasping motion, to show their owner is impatient. The maid shakes her head to herself. She opens the draw-bag, takes out five banknotes, places them in the waiting hand. The arm twists back to the table again.)

Croupier: Nothing more goes. Nothing more.

(Again the clicking sound.)

Croupier: Sixteen, black!

(Again the murmuring voices.)

Croupier: Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen.

(Again the insatiable arm extends itself, all fingers out, fluttering. The maid inserts her whole hand into the draw-bag this time, as one would try on a glove. She turns the bag inside-out. It is empty.)

Maid: It’s all gone, madame. There’s no more left.

(The arm slowly wilts, drops down to its owner s side like a withered vine. Then the woman slowly turns and forces her way out from between the other players. She is a handsome woman, in her forties or early fifties, but now her face is haggard, drawn. A lock of her silvery hair has fallen down over one eye. She staggers, almost as if she were drunk. The maid quickly rises, puts aside her crocheting, and puts an arm around her waist to support her.)

Maid: Lean on me, madame. The fresh air will help you pull yourself together.

Countess: Haven’t you any money of your own you could let me have? I could give it back to you tomorrow.

Maid (wryly): I never carry money of my own with me when I go out with madame in the evening. I learned not to long ago.

Countess (dazed): What’ll I do?

Maid: Come away now, madame. Come back to your hotel. You’ve been in here since it first opened, hours ago.

Countess (lifts her arm, looks at a diamond bracelet she is wearing as though having forgotten she had it on): Oh— This—

Maid (quickly stops her by putting her hand over it): You know they won’t accept jewelry at the table, madame. You’ve tried before.

Countess: Maybe I could sell it to someone in the room here.

Maid (pleading): Madame.

Madame: It’s the last of all the beautiful pieces you once had.

(She picks up her crocheting from the chair-seat, stuffs it into the draw-bag.)

Maid (in a choked voice): I can’t bear to watch much more of this. I just can’t stand it. It does something to me. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you, madame, at the end of the week.

(Countess doesn’t answer, as though she hasn’t heard her. Stands there looking around avidly, licking her lips, as if in search of a possible source of money.)

Maid: This is a fever.

Countess (indifferently): And there is no quinine for it.

Maid (coaxing her gently, as if she were a child): Come, madame. Come away now.

(They walk slowly across the large room, the countess leaning exhaustedly against the maid. The Casino doorman, standing motionless to one side of the glass doors leading out, stiffens to attention, pulls one of the two glass doors open, holds it that way in readiness, touches two fingers to the visor of his uniform cap.)

Doorman (respectfully, ducking his head): Goodnight, madame. Goodnight, mademoiselle.

(As though this has suddenly attracted her attention to him, the countess raises her head, stops, looks at him, frees herself from the maid, takes a step over toward him.)

Countess: Young man — my friend — I wonder if by any chance you could lend me—

Maid (horrified): Madame!

(She quickly places herself between the two of them, tactfully turns the countess away, guides her to the door, which he has continued to hold open for them, and out through it.)

Maid: Madame, consider what you are doing.

(The maid looks around over her shoulder at the doorman. She shakes her head to him, pityingly. He nods his head in agreement with her, also pityingly. He lets the door ease closed again, holding it so that it doesn’t swing...)

(Living room of a villa. It is furnished in rather old-fashioned, mediocre, overcrowded taste. In the center of the room there is a round table and two chairs. The doorbell rings. The woman who goes to the door is past middle-age but still lithe. Her hair is worn in the Slavic fashion, in a braid wound circularly around her head like a coronet, and she wears a Russian peasant blouse, white-bordered with colored embroidery. She opens the door. The countess is standing before it.)

Roulette-player: You are the clairvoyant?

Clairvoyant: I prefer to call myself a consultant. I am not a fortune-teller, whatever you may think. I give advice, but I do not make predictions.

Roulette-player: Forgive me.

Clairvoyant: You are the lady who telephoned for a private appointment? Countess—?

Countess (stopping her with a slight gesture of her hand): I am. No names are necessary.

Clairvoyant: I understand. Come in, won’t you please? (Closes the door) Sit down, madame. May I offer you some tea?

Countess: It may make me less nervous.

Clairvoyant (pausing on her way out): You are nervous of me?

Countess: Just nervous altogether.

(Clairvoyant raises her brows, then goes out. Countess, waiting, is extremely restless. Drums her fingers on tabletop. Takes out a cigarette, lights it with noticeably shaky hands, takes only a puff or two, then gets rid of it again. Clairvoyant reenters left, carrying a samovar.)

Countess: You are Russian, aren’t you?

(Clairvoyant places samovar on table. While the next few remarks are being exchanged, she pours tea, each of them takes a swallow or two, then pushes it aside. The clairvoyant takes up a deck of cards, shuffles them, and begins to deal them out before her, very slowly, as if engaged in playing solitaire. Their conversation meanwhile has continued without a break.

Clairvoyant: I was, when there was still a Russia. Now I am a person without a country. They used to call us White Russians. Today even that name is forgotten.

Countess: I have a pressing need of guidance, of advice.

Clairvoyant: I know.

Countess: Then you know also the subject on which I need it?

Clairvoyant: The casino.

Countess (nodding): The casino. How did you know?

Clairvoyant: Your nervous gestures. The way in which your eyes almost seem to bum.

Countess (somberly): It is that easy to tell. I didn’t realize...

Clairvoyant: I have lived many years in this world, my friend. (Staring at her intently) You must play?

Countess: While I live, I must play. If I were to lock myself in my room and throw the key out of the window, still somehow I would find myself beside that table that very same night.

Clairvoyant (almost contemptuously, with the contempt that a non-drinker has for an alcoholic): I have heard it is this way.

Countess (wearily): Then you’ve heard right.

Clairvoyant: And you want my advice. And yet I know and you know, we both know, that you won’t take it. Still, here it is.

I give it anyway. ( Slowly, with heavy emphasis) Do not play .

Countess: As well ask me to stop breathing. (Leaning toward her, in desperation) You must help me. You must I don’t want to be lectured, I want to be helped.