Although Tioka and I both recovered, this alarming incident had its
consequences on my life. It caused me to leave my old home, and from the
moment of that departure I never saw my dear mother again.
With the passing of her mild and tender presence all that still was pure
and holy vanished out of my life.
I was already on the brink of perdition. Freed from the restraint of
that gentle hand, whose light touch even from afar had still controlled
my heart, I plunged forward to destruction.
The inheritance was divided, and my share was dissipated I know not how.
I returned to Moscow, and found myself ever more and more in need of
money.
I lived luxuriously, I dressed gorgeously, and traveled from one place
to another--yet I had nothing of my own except an income of four thousand
rubles a year, which were scarcely paid to me before they were swallowed
up in the gulf of my debts. I asked Prilukoff for money, and he gave it
to me.
But there came a day when, on my asking him for five thousand rubles, he
turned upon me abruptly.
"I have not got them," he said. "At least," he added, "not unless I
steal them."
"How dreadful," I exclaimed in terror. "How can you say such a thing?"
Then I laughed, feeling sure that he had spoken in jest.
"Get them from Kamarowsky," said Prilukoff, curtly.
I started with indignation. From Kamarowsky! Never, never, as long as I
lived. I had seen him frequently during the last few days; he and his
charming little son, Grania, still in their deep mourning and with pale,
sad faces, used to come and see me, and talk to me with many tears about
their dear one who was gone. It would have been horrible, it would have
been indecorous, to ask Kamarowsky for money.
"I did not say you were to ask him for it," retorted Prilukoff.
"What then?"
"Telephone and invite him to dine with you to-morrow."
"Well? And then?"
"Then we shall see."
As he insisted I complied reluctantly.
Kamarowsky accepted the invitation with touching gratitude, and a large
basket of roses preceded his arrival.
Prilukoff, who was still hanging about in my boudoir, but declared that
he would not stay to dinner, sniffed the roses with a cynical smile:
"Flowers! Flowers! Nothing but flowers! _Nous allons changer tout
cela._"
The door bell rang, announcing the arrival of my visitor.
"What am I to do with him now he is here?" I asked Prilukoff uneasily.
"What shall I say?"
"Do nothing and say nothing. And mind you don't open any letter in his
presence."
"Any letter?" I asked, in bewilderment. "What letter?"
"I tell you not to open any. That is enough." With this obscure
injunction Prilukoff urged me towards the drawing-room, and I went in to
receive my guest.
Count Kamarowsky, while inspiring me with the deepest pity, frequently
irritated and annoyed me. His grief for his lost Emilia was doubtless
deep and sincere; but sometimes when I tried to console him I seemed to
read in his tear-filled eyes an emotion that was not all sorrow, and in
the clasp of his hand I perceived a fervor that spoke of something more
than gratitude. I felt hurt for the sake of my poor friend, Lily, so
lately laid to her rest; and I shrank from him with feelings akin to
anger and aversion.
Yet, when I saw him moving away, pale in his deep mourning, leading his
sad little child by the hand, my heart was touched and I would call them
back to me and try to comfort them both. The child clung to me with
passionate affection, while his father seemed loth ever to leave my
side.
Conversation between us always soared in the highest regions of ethereal
and spiritual things; our talk was all on abstract subjects, dwelling
especially on the immortality of the soul, the abode of the departed,
the probabilities of reunion in the world beyond. The commonplace
everyday prose of life was so far removed from our intercourse that I
felt shy of having asked him to dinner. To eat in the presence of so
much sorrow seemed indecorous and out of keeping. Nevertheless, as I had
invited him to dine I could not but seat myself opposite him at the
flower-decked, fruit-laden table.
A man-servant, lent to me for the occasion by Prilukoff, handed the
zakusta and the vodka; and soon in the mellow atmosphere of the little
dining-room, under the gentle luster of the pink-shaded lamps, a rare
smile blossomed timidly now and then out of the gloom of our melancholy
conversation.
We had scarcely finished taking our coffee when, to my astonishment,
Prilukoff was announced. He entered with rapid step, holding a large
sealed envelope in his hand. For a moment he seemed disconcerted at
finding that I was not alone, and looked as if he would hide the letter
behind his back. Then, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as if
acquiescing in the unavoidable presence of a stranger, he handed me the
envelope with a deep bow.
"What is it?" I asked in surprise.
Prilukoff glanced somewhat uneasily at my guest, then he bent forward
and said in a low voice--yet not so low that the other could not hear
what he said:
"This morning, Countess, you did me the honor of confiding to me the
fact that you needed ten thousand rubles. I shall be most grateful and
honored if you will accept that sum from me." So saying, he placed the
envelope in my hand. Then with a brief salutation to Count Kamarowsky
and another profound bow to me, he pleaded haste and withdrew.
A flush had mounted to the Count's temples.
"Who was that?" he asked in a harsh voice.
I mentioned Prilukoff's name, and Kamarowsky with knitted eyebrows
exclaimed: "You must have very confidential relations with him, if he
permits himself to give you ten thousand rubles."
"Oh, no--no," I stammered. "He is--he is only lending them to me. I shall
pay them back, of course--"
Kamarowsky had risen from his chair. He took both my hands and pressed
them to his breast.
"How wrong of you! How wrong! Why did you not ask me? Have you no
confidence in me? How can you accept assistance from a stranger when I
am here--I, who am so devoted to you?"
I know not why I burst into tears. A sense of shame and degradation
overcame me. In a moment his arms were round me.
"Dearest, sweetest, do not cry. I know you must feel humiliated at
accepting money from that man, who may afterwards make all kinds of
claims upon you. Return the money to him, I implore you, and accept it
from me."