Fischelowitz paid each worker for the day's work, in his quick, cheerful
way, and each, being paid, passed out through the front shop into the
street. Five minutes later the Count was strolling along the
Maximilians-strasse in the direction of the royal palace. As he walked he
drew himself up to the full height of his military figure and looked into
the faces of the passers in the way with grave dignity. At that hour there
were many people abroad, slim lieutenants in the green uniforms of the
Uhlans and in the blue coats and crimson facings of the heavy cavalry,
superior officers with silver or gold plated epaulettes, slim maidens and
plump matrons, beardless students in bright, coloured caps, and solemn,
elderly civilians with great beards and greater spectacles, great Munich
burghers and little Munich nobles, gaily dressed children of all ages,
dogs of every breed from the Saint Bernard to the crooked-jointed Dachs,
perambulators not a few and legions of nursery-maids. Most of the people
who passed cast a glance at the thoroughbred-looking man in the threadbare
frock-coat who looked at them all with such an air of quiet superiority,
carrying his head so high and putting down his feet with such a firm
tread. There were doubtless those among the crowd who saw in the tired
face the indications of a life-story not without interest, for the crowd
was not, nor ever is, in Munich, lacking in intelligent and observant
persons. But in all the multitude there was not one man or woman who knew
the name of the individual to whom the face belonged, and there were few
who would have risked the respectability of their social position by
making the acquaintance of a man so evidently poor, even if the occasion
had presented itself.
But presently a figure was seen moving swiftly through the throng in the
direction already taken by the Count, a figure of a type much more
familiar to the sight of the Munich stroller, for it was that of a poorly
dressed girl with a long plait of red-brown hair, carrying a covered brown
straw basket upon one arm and hurrying along with the noiseless tread
possible only in the extreme old age of shoes that were never strong. Poor
Vjera had been sent by Fischelowitz with a thousand cigarettes to be
delivered at one of the hotels. She was generally employed upon like
errands, because she was the poorest in the establishment, and those who
received the wares gave her a few pence for her trouble. She sped quickly
onward, until she suddenly found herself close behind the Count. Then she
slackened her pace and crept along as noiselessly as possible, her eyes
fixed upon him as she walked and evidently doing her best not to overtake
him nor to be seen by him. As luck would have it, however, the Count
suddenly stood still before the show window of a picture-dealer's shop. A
clever painting of a solitary Cossack riding along a stony mountain road,
by Josef Brandt, had attracted his attention. Then as he realised that he
had looked at the picture a dozen times during the previous week, his eye
wandered, and in the reflection of the plate-glass window he caught sight
of Vjera's slight form at no great distance from him. He turned sharply
upon his heels and met her eyes, taking off his limp hat with a courteous
gesture.
"Permit me," he said, laying his hand upon the basket and trying to take
it from her.
Poor Vjera's face flushed suddenly, and her grip tightened upon the straw
handle and she refused to let it go.
"No, you shall never do that again," she said, quickly, trying to draw
back from him.
"And why not? Why should I not do you a service?"
"The other day you took it--the people stared at you--they never stare at
me, for I am only a poor girl--"
"And what are the people or what is their staring to me?" asked the Count,
quietly. "I am not afraid of being taken for a servant or a porter,
because I carry a lady's parcel. Pray give me the basket."
"Oh no, pray let it be," cried Vjera, in great earnest. "I cannot bear to
see you with such a thing in your hand."
They were still standing before the picture-dealer's window, while many
people passed along the pavement. In trying to draw away, Vjera found
herself suddenly in the stream, and just then a broad-shouldered officer
who chanced to be looking the other way came into collision with her, so
roughly that she was forced almost into the Count's arms. The latter made
a step forward.
"Is it your habit to jostle ladies in that way?" he asked in a sharp tone,
addressing the stout lieutenant.
The latter muttered something which might be taken for an apology and
passed on, having no intention of being drawn into a street quarrel with
an odd-looking individual who, from his accent, was evidently a foreigner.
The Count's eyes darted an angry glance after the offender, and then he
looked again at Vjera. In the little accident he had got possession of the
basket. Thereupon he passed it to his left hand and offered Vjera his
right arm.
"Did the insolent fellow hurt you?" he asked anxiously, in Polish.
"Oh no--only give me my basket!" Vjera's face was painfully flushed.
"No, my dear child," said the Count, gravely. "You will not deny me the
pleasure of accompanying you and of carrying your burden. Afterwards, if
you will, we can take a little walk together, before I see you to your
home."
"You are always so kind to me," answered the girl, bending her head, as
though to hide her burning cheeks, but submitting at last to his will.
For some minutes they walked on in silence. Then Vjera showed by a gesture
that she wished to cross the street, on the other side of which was
situated one of the principal hotels of the city. In front of the entrance
Vjera put out her hand entreatingly towards her basket, but the Count took
no notice of the attempt and resolutely ascended the steps of the porch by
her side. Behind the swinging glass door stood the huge porter amply
endowed with that military appearance so characteristic of all men in
Germany who wear anything of the nature of an official costume.
"The lady has a package for some one here," said the Count, holding out
the basket.
"For the head waiter," said Vjera, timidly.
The porter took the basket, set it down, touched the button of an electric
bell and silently looked at the pair with the malignant scrutiny which is
the prerogative of servants in their manner with those whom they are
privileged to consider as their inferiors. Presently, however, meeting the
Count's cold stare, he turned away and strolled up the vestibule. A moment
later the head waiter appeared, glorious in a perfectly new evening coat
and a phenomenal shirt front.
"Ah, my cigarettes!" he exclaimed briskly, and the Count heard the chink
of the nickel pence, as the head waiter inserted two fat white fingers
into the pocket of his exceedingly fashionable waistcoat.
The sight which must follow was one which the Count was anxious not to
see. He therefore turned his back and pretended to brush from his sleeve a
speck of dust revealed to his searching eye in the strong afternoon light
which streamed through the open door. Then Vjera's low-spoken word of
thanks and her light tread made him aware that she had received her little
gratuity; he stood politely aside while she passed out, and then went down
the half-dozen steps with her. As they began to move up the street, he did
not offer her his arm again.
"You are so kind, so kind to me," said poor Vjera. "How can I ever thank
you!"
"Between you and me there is no question of thanks," answered her
companion. "Or if there is to be such a question it should arise in
another way. It is for me to thank you."
"For what?"
"For many things, all of which have proceeded from your kindness of heart
and have resulted in making my life bearable during the past months--or
years. I keep little account of time. How long is it since I have been
making cigarettes for Fischelowitz, at the rate of three marks a
thousand?"
"Ever since I can remember," answered Vjera. "It is six years since I came
to work there as a little girl."
"Six years? That is not possible! You must be mistaken, it cannot be so
long."
Vjera said nothing, but turned her face away with an expression of pain.
"Yes, it is a long time, since all that happened," said the Count,
thoughtfully. "I was a young man then, I am old now."
"Old! How can you say anything so untrue!" Vjera exclaimed with
considerable indignation.
"Yes, I am old. It is no wonder. We say at home that 'strange earth dies
without wind.' A foreign land will make old bones of a man without the
help of years. That is what Germany has done for me. And yet, how much
older I should be but for you, dear Vjera! Shall we sit down here, in this
quiet place, under the trees? You know it is all over to-morrow, and I am
free at last. I would like to tell you my story."
Vjera, who was tired of the close atmosphere of the workroom and whose
strength was not enough to let her walk far with pleasure, sat down upon
the green bench willingly enough, but the nervous look of pain had not
disappeared from her face.
"Is it of any use to tell it to me again?" she asked, sadly, as she leaned
against the painted backboard.
The Count produced a cigarette and gravely lighted it, before he answered
her, and when he spoke he seemed to attach little or no importance to her
question.
"You see," he said, "it is all different now, and I can look at it from a
different point of view. Formerly when I spoke of it, I am afraid that I
spoke bitterly, for, of course, I could not foresee that it could all come
right again so soon, so very soon. And now that this weary time is over I
can look back upon it with some pride, if with little pleasure--save for
the part you have played in my life, and--may I say it?--saving the part I
have played in yours."
He put out his hand gently and tenderly touched hers, and there was
something in the meeting of those two thin, yellow hands, stained with the
same daily labour and not meeting for the first time thus, that sent a
thrill to the two hearts and that might have brought a look of thoughtful
interest into eyes dulled and wearied by the ordinary sights of this
world. Vjera did not resent the innocent caress, but the colour that came
into her face was not of the same hue as that which had burned there when
he had insisted upon carrying her basket. This time the blush was not
painful to see, but rather shed a faint light of beauty over the plain,
pale features. Poor Vjera was happy for a moment.
"I am very glad if I have been anything to you," she said. "I would I
might have been more."
"More? I do not see--you have been gentle, forbearing, respecting my
misfortunes and trying to make others respect them. What more could you
have done, or what more could you have been?"
Vjera was silent, but she softly withdrew her hand from his and gazed at
the people in the distance. The Count smoked without speaking, for several
minutes, closing his eyes as though revolving a great problem in his mind,
then glancing sidelong at his companion's face, hesitating as though about
to speak, checking himself and shutting his eyes again in meditation.
Holding his cigarette between his teeth he clasped his fingers together
tightly, unclasped them again and let his arms fall on each side of him.
At last he turned sharply, as though resolved what to do.
He believed that he was on the very eve of recovering a vast fortune and
of resuming a high position in the world. It was no wonder that there was
a struggle in his soul, when at that moment a new complication seemed to
present itself. He was indeed sure that he did not love Vjera, and in the
brilliant dreams which floated before his half-closed eyes, visions of
beautiful and high-born women dazzled him with their smiles and enchanted
him by the perfect grace of their movements. To-morrow he might choose his
wife among such as they. But to-day Vjera was by his side, poor Vjera, who
alone of those he had known during the years of his captivity had stood by
him, had felt for him, had given him a sense of reliance in her perfect
sincerity and honest affection. And her affection had grown into something
more; it had developed into love during the last months. He had seen it,
had known it and had done nothing to arrest the growth. Nay, he had done
worse. Only a moment ago he had taken her hand in a way which might well
mislead an innocent girl. The Count, according to his lights, was the very
incarnation of the theory, honour, in the practice, honesty. His path was
clear. If he had deceived Vjera in the very smallest accent of word or
detail of deed he must make instant reparation. This was the reason why he
turned sharply in his seat and looked at her with a look which was
certainly kind, but which was, perhaps, more full of determination than of
lover-like tenderness.
"Vjera," he said, slowly, pausing on every syllable of his speech, "will
you be my wife?"
Vjera looked at him long and shook her head in silence. Instead of
blushing, she turned pale, changing colour with that suddenness which
belongs to delicate or exhausted organisations. The Count did not heed the
plain though unspoken negation and continued to speak very slowly and
earnestly, choosing his words and rounding his expressions as though he
were making a declaration to a young princess instead of asking a poor
Polish girl to marry him. He even drew himself together, as it were, with
the movement of dignity which was habitual with him, straightening his
back, squaring his shoulders and leaning slightly forward in his seat. As
he began to speak again, Vjera clasped her hands upon her knees and looked
down at the gravel of the public path.
"I am in earnest," he said. "To-morrow, all those rights to which I was
born will be restored to me, and I shall enjoy what the world calls a
great position. Am I so deeply indebted to the world that I must submit to
all its prejudices and traditions? Has the world given me anything, in
exchange for which it becomes my duty to consult its caprices, or its
social superstitions? Surely not. To whom am I most indebted, to the world
which has turned its back on me during a temporary embarrassment and loss
of fortune, or to my friend Vjera who has been faithfully kind all along?
The question itself is foolish. I owe everything to Vjera, and nothing to
the world. The case is simple, the argument is short and the verdict is
plain. I will not take the riches and the dignities which will be mine by
this time to-morrow to the feet of some high-born lady who, to-day, would
look coldly on me because I am not--not quite in the fashion, so far as
outward appearance is concerned. But I will and I do offer all, wealth,
title, dignity, everything to Vjera. And she shakes her head, and with a
single gesture refuses it all. Why? Has she a reason to give? An argument
to set up? A sensible ground for her decision? No, certainly not."
As he looked gravely towards her averted face, Vjera again shook her head,
slowly and thoughtfully, with an air of unalterable determination. He
seemed surprised at her obstinacy and watched her in silence for a few
moments.
"I see," he said at last, very sadly. "You think that I do not love you."
Vjera made no sign, and a long pause followed during which the Count's
features expressed great perplexity.
The day was drawing to its close and the low sun shot level rays through
the trees of the Hofgarten, far above the heads of the laughing children,
the gossiping nurses and the slowly moving crowd that filled the pavement
along the drive in front of the palace. Vjera and the Count were seated on
a bench which was now already in the shade. The air was beginning to grow
chilly, but neither of them heeded the change.
"You think that I do not love you," said the Count again. "You are
mistaken, deeply mistaken, Vjera."
The faint, soft colour rose in the poor girl's waxen cheeks, and there was
an unaccustomed light in her weary blue eyes as they met his.
"I do not say," continued her companion, "that I love you as boys love at
twenty. I am past that. I am not a young man any more, and I have had
misfortunes such as would have broken the hearts of most men, and of the
kind that do not dispose to great love-passion. If my troubles had come to
me through the love of a woman--it might have been otherwise. As it is--do
you think that I have no love for you, Vjera? Do not think that, dear--do
not let me see that you think it, for it would hurt me. There is much for
you, much, very much."
"To-day," answered Vjera, sadly, "but not to-morrow."
"You are cruel, without meaning to be even unkind," said the Count in an
unsteady voice. This time it was Vjera who took his hand in hers and
pressed it.
"God forbid that I should have an unkind thought for you," she said, very
tenderly.
The Count turned to her again and there was a moisture in his eyes of
which he was unconscious.
"Then believe that I do truly love you, Vjera," he answered. "Believe that
all that there is to give you, I give, and that my all is not a little. I
love you, child, in a way--ah, well, you have your girlish dreams of love,
and it is right that you should have them and it would be very wrong to
destroy them. But they shall not be destroyed by me, and surely not by any
other man, while I live. I shall grow young again, I will grow young for
you, for, in years at least, I am not old. I will be a boy for you, Vjera,
and I will love as boys love, but with the strength of a man who has known
sorrow and overlived it. You shall not feel that in taking me you are
taking a father, a protector, a man to whom your youth seems childhood,
and your youthfulness childish folly. No, no--I will be more than that to
you, I will be all to you that you are to me, and more, and more, each
day, till love has made us of one age, of one mind, of one heart. Do you
not believe that all this shall be? Speak, dear. What is there yet behind
in your thoughts?"
"I cannot tell. I wish I knew." Vjera's answer was scarcely audible and
she turned her face from him.
"And yet, there is something, you are keeping something from me, when I
have kept nothing from you. Why is it? Why do you not quite trust me and
believe in me? I can make you happy, now. Yesterday it was different and
so it was in all the yesterdays of yesterdays. I had nothing to offer you
but myself."
"It were best so," said Vjera in a low voice.
The Count was silent. There was something in her manner which he could not
understand, or rather, as he fancied, there was something in his own brain
which prevented him from understanding a very simple matter, and he grew
impatient with himself. At the same time he felt more and more strongly
drawn to the young girl at his side. As the sun went down and the evening
shadows deepened, he saw more in her face than he had been accustomed to
see there. Every line of the pale features so familiar to his sight in his
everyday life, reminded him of moments in the recent past when he had been
wretchedly unhappy, and when the kindly look in Vjera's face had comforted
him and made life seem less unbearable. In his dreary world she alone had
shown that she cared whether he lived or died, were insulted or respected,
were treated like a dog or like a Christian man. The kindness of his
employer was indeed undeniable, but it was of the sort which grated upon
the sensitive nature of the unfortunate cigarette-maker, for it was in
itself vulgarly cheerful, assuming that, after all, the Count should be
contented with his lot. But Vjera had always seemed to understand him, to
feel for him, to foresee his sensibilities as it were, and to be prepared
for them. In a measure appreciable to himself she admired him, and
admiration alone can make pity palatable to the proud. In her eyes his
constancy under misfortune was as admirable as his misfortunes themselves
were worthy of commiseration. In her eyes he was a gentleman, and one who
had a right to hold his head high among the best. When he was poorest, he
had felt himself to be in her eyes a hero. Are there many men who can
resist the charm of the one woman who believes them to be heroic? Are not
most men, too, really better for the trust and faith that is placed in
them by others, as the earthen vessel, valueless in itself, becomes a
thing of prize and beauty under the loving hand of the artist who draws
graceful figures upon it and colours it skilfully, and handles it
tenderly?
And now the poor man was puzzled and made anxious by the girl's obstinate
rejection of his offer. A chilly thought took shape in his mind and pained
him exceedingly.
"Vjera," he said at last, "I see how it is. You have never loved me. You
have only pitied me. You are good and kind, Vjera, but I wish it had been
otherwise."
He spoke very quietly, in a subdued tone, and the moisture which had been
more than once in his eyes since he had sat down beside the young girl,
now almost took the shape of a tear. He was wounded in his innocent
vanity, in the last stronghold of his fast-fading individuality. But Vjera
turned quickly at the words and a momentary fire illuminated her pale blue
eyes and dispelled the misty veil that seemed to dull them.
"Whatever you say, do not say that!" she exclaimed. "I love you with all
my heart--I--ah, if you only understood, if you only knew, if you only
guessed!"
"That is it," answered the Count. "If I only could--but there is something
that passes my understanding."
The look of pain faded from his face and gave way to a bright smile, so
bright, so rare, that it restored in the magic of an instant the freshness
of early youth to the weary mask of sorrow. Then he covered his eyes with
his hands as though searching his memory for something he could not find.
"What is it?" he asked, after a short pause and looking suddenly at Vjera.
"It is something I ought to remember and yet something I have quite
forgotten. Help me, Vjera, tell me what you are thinking of, and I will
explain it all."
"I was thinking of this day a week ago," said Vjera, and a little sob
escaped her as she quickly looked away.
"A week ago? Let me see--what happened a week ago? But why should I ask?
Nothing ever happens to me, nothing until now! And now, oh Vjera, it is
you who do not understand, it is you who do not know, who cannot guess."
As if he had forgotten everything else in the sudden realisation of his
return to liberty and fortune, he began to speak quickly and excitedly in
a tone louder and clearer than that of his ordinary voice.
"No," he cried, "you can never guess what this change is to me. You can
never know what I enjoy in the thought of being myself again, you cannot
understand what it is to have been rich and great, and to be poor and
wretched and to regain wealth and dignity again by the stroke of a pen in
the vibration of a second. And yet it is true, all true, I tell you,
to-day, at last, after so much waiting. To-morrow they will come to my
lodging to fetch me--a court carriage or two, and many officials who will
treat me with the old respect I was used to long ago. They will come up my
little staircase, bringing money, immense quantities of money, and the
papers and the parchments and the seals. How they will stare at my poor
lodging, for they have never known that I have been so wretched. Yes, one
will bring money in a black leathern case--I know just how it will
look--and another will have with him a box full of documents--all lawfully
mine--and a third will bring my orders, that I once wore, and with them
the order of Saint Alexander Nevsky and a letter on broad heavy paper,
signed Alexander Alexandrovitch, signed by the Tsar himself, Vjera. And I
shall go with them to be received in audience by the Prince Regent here,
before I leave for Petersburg. And then, after dinner, in the evening, I
will get into my special carriage in the express train and my servants
will make me comfortable and then away, away, a night, and a day and
another night and perhaps a few hours more and I shall be at home at last,
in my own great, beautiful home, far out in the glorious country among the
woods and the streams and the birds; and I shall be driven in an open
carriage with four horses up from the village through the great avenue of
poplars to the grand old house. But before I go in I will go to the
tomb--yes, I will go to the tomb among the trees, and I will say a prayer
for my father and--"
"Your father?" Vjera started slightly. She had listened to the long
catalogue of the poor man's anticipations with a sad, unchanging face, as
though she had heard it all before. But at the mention of his father's
death she seemed surprised.
"Yes. He is dead at last, and my brother died on the same day. I have had
letters. There was a disease abroad in the village. They caught it and
they died. And now everything is mine, everything, the lands and the
houses and the money, all, all mine. But I will say a prayer for them, now
that they are dead and I shall never see them again. God knows, they
treated me ill when they were alive, but death has them at last."
The Count's eyes grew suddenly cold and hard, so that Vjera shuddered as
she caught the look of hatred in them.
"Death, death, death!" he cried. "Death the judge, the gaoler, the
executioner! He has done justice on them for me, and they will not break
loose from the house he has made for them to lie in and to sleep in for
ever. And now, friend Death, I am master in their stead, and you must give
me time to enjoy the mastership before you serve me likewise. Oh Vjera,
the joy, the delight, the ecstasy, the glory of it all!"
He struck the palms of his lean hands together with the gesture of a boy,
and laughed aloud in the sheer overflowing of his heart. But Vjera sat
still, silent and thoughtful, beside him, watching him rather anxiously as
though she feared lest the excess of his happiness might do him an injury.
"You do not say anything, Vjera. You do not seem glad," he said, suddenly
noticing her expression.
"I am very glad, indeed I am," she answered, smiling with a great effort.
"Who would not be glad at the thought of seeing you enjoy your own again?"
"It is not for the money, Vjera!" he exclaimed in a lower and more
concentrated tone. "It is not really for the money nor for the lands, nor
even for the position or the dignity. Do you know what it is that makes me
so happy? I have got the best of it. That is it. It has been a long
struggle and a weary one, but I knew I should win, though I never saw how
it was to be. When they turned me away from them like a dog, my father and
my brother, I faced them on the threshold for the last time and I said to
them, 'Look you, you have made an outcast of me, and yet I am your son, my
father, and your brother, my brother, and you know it. And yet I tell you
that when we meet again, I shall be master here, and not you.' And so it
has turned out, Vjera, for they shall meet me--they dead, and I alive.
They jeered and laughed, and sent me away with only the clothes I wore,
for I would not take their money. I hear their laughter now in my
ears--but I hear, too, a laugh that is louder and more pitiless than
theirs was, for it is the laugh of Death!"