The Count rose to his feet as he finished the last sentence. It seemed as
though he were oppressed by the inaction to which he was constrained
during the last hours of waiting before the great moment, and he moved
nervously, like a man anxious to throw off a burden.
Vjera rose also, with a slow and weary movement.
"It is late," she said. "I must go home. Good-night."
"No. I will go with you. I will see you to your door."
"Thank you," she answered, watching his face closely.
Then the two walked side by side under the lime trees in the deepening
evening shadows, to the low archway by which the road leads out of the
Hofgarten on the side of the city. For some minutes neither spoke, but
Vjera could hear her companion's quickly drawn, irregular breath. His
heart was beating fast and his thoughts were chasing each other through a
labyrinth of dreams, inconsequent, unreasonable, but brilliant in the
extreme. His head high, his shoulders thrown back, his eyes flashing, his
lips tightly closed, the Count marched out with his companion into the
broad square. He felt that this had been the last day of his slavery and
that the morrow's sun was to rise upon a brighter and a happier period of
his life, in which there should be no more poverty, no more manual labour,
no more pinching and grinding and tormenting of himself in the hopeless
effort at outward and visible respectability. Poor Vjera saw in his face
what was passing in his mind, but her own expression of sadness did not
change. On the contrary, since his last outbreak of triumphant
satisfaction she had been more than usually depressed. For a long time the
Count did not again notice her low spirits, being absorbed in the
contemplation of his own splendid future. At last he seemed to recollect
her presence at his side, glanced at her, made as though to say something,
checked himself, and began humming snatches from an old opera. But either
his musical memory did not serve him, or his humour changed all at once,
for he suddenly was silent again, and after glancing once more at Vjera's
downcast face his own became very grave.
He had been brought back to present considerations, and he found himself
in one of those dilemmas with which his genuine pride, his innocent and
harmless vanity and his innate kindness constantly beset his life. He had
asked Vjera to marry him, scarcely half an hour earlier, and he now found
himself separated from the moment which had given birth to the generous
impulse, by a lengthened contemplation of his own immediate return to
wealth and importance.
He was deeply attached to the poor Polish girl, as men shipwrecked upon
desert islands grow fond of persons upon whom they could have bestowed no
thought in ordinary life. He had grown well accustomed to his poor
existence, and in the surroundings in which he found himself, Vjera was
the one being in whom, besides sympathy for his misfortune, he discovered
a sensibility rarer than common, and the unconscious development of a
natural refinement. There are strange elements to be found in all great
cities among the colonies of strangers who make their dwellings therein.
Brought together by trouble, they live in tolerance among themselves, and
none asks the other the fundamental question of upper society, "Whence art
thou?"--nor does any make of his neighbour the inquiry which rises first
to the lips of the man of action, "Whither goest thou?" They meet as the
seaweed meets on the crest of the wave, of many colours from many distant
depths, to intermingle for a time in the motion of the waters, to part
company under the driving of the north wind, to be drifted at last,
forgetful of each other, by tides and currents which wash the opposite
ends of the earth. This is the life of the emigrant, of the exile, of the
wanderer among men; the incongruous elements meet, have brief acquaintance
and part, not to meet again. Who shall count the faces that the exile has
known, the voices that have been familiar in his ear, the hands that have
pressed his? In every land and in every city, he has met and talked with a
score, with scores, with hundreds of men and women all leading the more or
less mysterious and uncertain life which has become his own by necessity
or by choice. If he be an honest man and poor, a dozen trades have
occupied his fingers in half a dozen capitals; if he be dishonest, a
hundred forms and varieties of money-bringing dishonesty are sheathed like
arrows in his quiver, to be shot unawares into the crowd of well-to-do and
unsuspecting citizens on the borders of whose respectable society the
adventurer warily picks his path.
It is rarely that two persons meet under such circumstances between whom
the bond of a real sympathy exists and can develop into lasting friendship
between man and man, or into true love between man and woman. When both
feel themselves approaching such a point, they are also unconsciously
returning to civilisation, and with the civilising influence arises the
desire to ask the fatal question, "Whence art thou?"--or the fear lest the
other may ask it, and the anxiety to find an answer where there is none
that will bear scrutiny.
It was therefore natural that the Count should feel disturbed at what he
had done, in spite of his sincere and honourable wish to abide by his
proposal and to make Vjera his wife. He felt that in returning to his own
position in the world he owed it in a measure to himself to wed with a
maiden of whom he could at least say that she came of honest people.
Always centred in his own alternating hopes and fears, and conscious of
little in the lives of others, it seemed to him that a great difficulty
had suddenly revealed itself to his apprehensions. At the same time, by a
self-contradiction familiar to such natures as his, he felt himself more
and more strongly drawn to the girl, and more and more strictly bound in
honour to marry her. As he thought of this, his habitual contempt of the
world and its opinion returned. What had the world done for him? And if he
had felt no obligation to consult it in his poverty, why need he bend to
any such slavery in the coming days of his splendour? He stopped suddenly
at the corner of the street in which the Polish girl lived. She lodged,
with a little sister who was still too young to work, in a room she hired
of a respectable Bohemian shoemaker. The latter's wife was of the
sour-good kind, whose chief talent lies in giving their kind actions a
hard-hearted appearance.
"Vjera," said the Count, earnestly, "I have been talking a great deal
about myself. You must forgive me, for the news I have received is so very
important and makes such a sudden difference in my prospects. But you have
not given me the answer I want to my question. Will you be my wife, Vjera,
and come with me out of this wretched existence to share my happy life and
to make it happier? Will you?"
His tone was so sincere and loving that it produced a little storm of
evanescent happiness in the girl's heart, and the tears started to her
eyes and stained her sallow, waxen cheeks.
"Ah, if it could only be true!" she exclaimed in a voice more than half
full of hope, as she quickly brushed away the drops.
"But it is true, indeed it is," answered the Count. "Oh, Vjera, do you
think I would deceive you? Do you think I could tell you a story in which
there is no truth whatever? Do not think that of me, Vjera."
The tears broke out afresh, but from a different source. For some seconds
she could not speak.
"Why do you cry so bitterly?" he asked, not understanding at all what was
passing. "I swear to you it is all true--"
"It is not that--it is not that," cried Vjera. "I know--I know that you
believe it--and I love you so very much--"
"But then, I do not understand," said the Count in a low voice that
expressed his pitiful perplexity. "How can I not believe it, when it is
all in the letters? And why should you not believe it, too? Besides, Vjera
dear, it will all be quite clear to-morrow. Of course--well, I can
understand that having known me poor so long, it must seem strange to you
to think of me as very rich. But I shall not be another man, for that. I
shall always be the same for you, Vjera, always the same."
"Yes, always the same," sighed the girl under her breath.
"Yes, and so, if you love me to-day, you will love me just as well
to-morrow--to-morrow, the great day for me. What day will it be? Let me
see--to-morrow is Wednesday."
"Wednesday, yes," repeated Vjera. "If only there were no to-morrow--" She
checked herself. "I mean," she added, quickly, "if only it could be
Thursday, without any day between."
"You are a strange girl, Vjera. I do not know what you are thinking of
to-day. But to-morrow you will see. I think they will come for me in the
morning. You shall see, you shall see."
Vjera began to move onward and the Count walked by her side, wondering at
her manner and tormenting his brain in the vain effort to understand it.
In front of her door he held out his hand.
"Promise me one thing," he said, as she laid her fingers in his and looked
up at him. Her eyes were still full of tears.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Promise that you will be my wife, when you are convinced that all this
good fortune is real. You do not believe in it, though I cannot tell why.
I only ask that when you are obliged to believe in it, you will do as I
ask."
Vjera hesitated, and as she stood still the hand he held trembled
nervously.
"I promise," she said, at last, as though with a great effort. Then, all
at once, she covered her eyes and leaned against the door-post. He laid
his hand caressingly upon her shoulder.
"Is it so hard to say?" he asked, tenderly.
"Oh, but if it should ever be indeed true!" she moaned. "If it should--if
it should!"
"What then? Shall we not be happy together? Will it not be even pleasant
to remember these wretched years?"
"But if it should turn out so--oh, how can I ever be a fitting wife for
you, how can I learn all that a great lady must think, and do, and say? I
shall be unworthy of you--of your new friends, of your new world--but
then, it cannot really happen. No--do not speak of it any more, it hurts
me too much--good-night, good-night! Let us sleep and forget, and go back
to our work in the morning, as though nothing had happened--in the
morning, to-morrow. Will you? Then good-night."
"There will be no work to-morrow," he said, returning to his argument. But
she broke away and fled from him and disappeared in the dark and narrow
staircase. As he stood, he could hear her light tread on the creaking wood
of the steps, fainter and fainter in the distance. Then he caught the
feeble tinkle of a little bell, the opening and shutting of a door, and he
was alone in the gloom of the evening.
For some minutes he stood still, as though listening for some faint echo
from the direction in which Vjera had disappeared, then he slowly and
thoughtfully walked away. He had forgotten to eat at dinner-time, and now
he forgot that the hour of the second meal had come round. He walked on,
not knowing and not caring whither he went, absorbed in the contemplation
of the bright pictures which framed themselves in his brain, troubled only
by his ever-recurring wonder at Vjera's behaviour.
Unconsciously, and from sheer force of habit, he threaded the streets in
the direction of the tobacconist's shop where so much of his time was
spent. If it be not true that the ghosts of the dead haunt places familiar
to them in life, yet the superstition is founded upon the instincts of
human nature. Men begin to haunt certain spots unconsciously while they
are alive, especially those which they are obliged to visit every day and
in which they are accustomed to sit, idle or at work, during the greater
part of the week. The artist, when he wishes to be completely at rest,
re-enters the studio he left but an hour earlier; the sailor hangs about
the port when he is ashore, the shopman cannot resist the temptation to
spend an hour among his wares on Sunday, the farmer is irresistibly drawn
to the field to while away the time on holidays between dinner and supper.
We all of us see more and understand better what we see, in those
surroundings most familiar to us, and it is a general law that the average
intelligence likes the best that which it understands with the least
effort. The mechanical part of us, too, when free from any direct and
especial impulse of the mind, does unknowingly what it has been in the
habit of doing. Two-thirds of all the physical diseases in the world are
caused by the disturbance of the mental habits and are vastly aggravated
by the direction of the thoughts to the part afflicted. Idiots and madmen
are often phenomenally healthy people, because there is in their case no
unnatural effort of the mind to control and manage the body. The Count
having bestowed no thought upon the direction of his walk, mechanically
turned towards the scene of his daily labour.
Considering that he believed himself to have abandoned for ever the
irksome employment of rolling tobacco in a piece of parchment in order to
slip it into a piece of paper, it might have been supposed that he would
be glad to look at anything rather than the glass door of the shop in
which he had repeated that operation so many hundreds of thousands of
times; or, at least, it might have been expected that on realising where
he was he would be satisfied with a glance of recognition and would turn
away.
But the Count's fate had ordained otherwise. When he reached the shop the
lights were burning brightly in the show window and within. Through the
glass door he could see that Fischelowitz was comfortably installed in a
chair behind the counter, contentedly smoking one of his own best
cigarettes, and smiling happily to himself through the fragrant cloud. If
the tobacconist's wife had been present, the Count would have gone away
without entering, for he did not like her, and had reason to suspect that
she hated him, which was indeed the case. But Akulina was nowhere to be
seen, the shop looked bright and cheerful, the Count was tired, he pushed
the door and entered. Fischelowitz turned his head without modifying his
smile, and seeing who his visitor was nodded familiarly. The Count raised
his hat a little from his head and immediately replaced it.
"Good-evening, Herr Fischelowitz," he said, speaking, as usual, in German.
"Good-evening, Count," answered the tobacconist, cheerfully. "Sit down,
and light a cigarette. What is the news?"
"Great news with me, for to-morrow," said the other, bending his head as
he stooped over the nickel-plated lamp on the counter, in which a tiny
flame burned for the convenience of customers. "To-morrow, at this time, I
shall be on my way to Petersburg."
"Well, I hope so, for your sake," was the good-humoured reply. "But I am
afraid it will always be to-morrow, Herr Graf."
The Count shook his head after staring for a few seconds at his employer,
and then smoked quietly, as though he attached no weight to the remark.
Fischelowitz looked curiously at him, and during a brief moment the smile
faded from his face.
"You have not been long at supper," he remarked, after a pause. The
observation was suggested by the condition of his own appetite.
"Supper?" repeated the Count, rather vaguely. "I believe I had forgotten
all about it. I will go presently."
"The Count is reserving himself for to-morrow," said an ironical voice in
the background. Akulina entered the shop from the workroom, a guttering
candle in a battered candlestick in one hand, and a number of gaily
coloured pasteboard boxes tucked under the other arm. "What is the use of
eating to-day when there will be so many good things to-morrow?"
Neither Fischelowitz nor the Count vouchsafed any answer to this thrust.
For the second time, since the Count had entered, however, the tobacconist
wore an expression approaching to gravity. The Count himself kept his
composure admirably, only glancing coldly at Akulina, and then looking at
his cigarette. Akulina is a broad, fat woman, with a flattened Tartar
face, small eyes, good but short teeth, full lips and a dark complexion.
She reminds one of an over-fed tabby cat, of doubtful temper, and her
voice seems to reach utterance after traversing some thick, soft medium,
which lends it an odd sort of guttural richness. She moves quietly but
heavily and has an Asiatic second sight in the matter of finance. In
matters of thrift and foresight her husband places implicit confidence in
her judgment. In matters of generosity and kindness implying the use of
money, he never consults her.
"It is amazing to see how much people will believe," she said, putting out
her candle and snuffing it with her thumb and forefinger. Then she began
to arrange the boxes she had brought, setting them in order upon the
shelves. Still neither of the men answered her. But she was not the woman
to be reduced to silence by silence.
"I am always telling you that it is all rubbish," she continued, turning a
broad expanse of alpaca-covered back upon her audience. "I am always
telling you that you are no more a count than Fischelowitz is a grand
duke, that the whole thing is a foolish imagination which you have stuck
into your head, as one sticks tobacco into a paper shell. And it ought to
be burned out of your head, or starved out, or knocked out, or something,
for if it stays there it will addle your brains altogether. Why cannot you
see that you are in the world just like other people, and give up all
these ridiculous dreams and all this chatter about counts and princes and
such like people, of whom you never spoke to one in your life, for all you
may say?"
The Count glanced at the back of Akulina's head, which was decently
covered by a flattened twist of very shining black hair, and then he
looked at Fischelowitz as though to inquire whether the latter would
suffer a gentleman to be thus insulted in his presence and on his
premises. Fischelowitz seemed embarrassed, and coloured a little.
"You might choose your language a little more carefully, wife," he
observed in a rather timid tone.
"And you might choose your friends with a better view to your own
interests," she answered without hesitation. "If you allow this sort of
thing to go on, and four children growing up, and you expecting to open
another shop this summer--why, you had better turn count yourself," she
concluded, triumphantly, and with that nice logical perception peculiar to
her kind.
"If you mean to say that the Count's valuable help has not been to our
advantage--" began Fischelowitz, making a desperate effort to give a more
pleasant look to things.
"Oh, I know that," laughed Akulina, scornfully. "I know that the Count, as
you call him, can make his two thousand a day as well as any one. I am not
blind. And I know you, and I know that it is a sort of foolish pleasure to
you to employ a count in the work and to pay your money to a count, though
he does not earn it any better than any one else, nor any worse, to be
just. And I know the Count, and I know his friends who borrow fifty marks
of you and pay you back in stuffed dolls with tunes in them. I know you,
Christian Gregorovitch"--at the thought of the lost money Akulina broke at
last into her native language and gave the reins to her fury in good
Russian--"yes, I know you, and him, and his friends and your friends, and
I see the good yellow money flying out of the window like a flight of
canary birds when the cage is opened, and I see you grinning like
Player-Ape over the vile Vienna puppet, and winding up its abominable
music as though you were turning the key upon your money in the safe
instead of listening to the tune of its departure. And then because
Akulina has the courage to tell you the truth, and to tell you that your
fine Count is no count, and that his friends get from you ten times the
money he earns, then you turn on me like a bear, ready to bite off my
head, and you tell me to choose my language! Is there no shame in you,
Christian Gregorovitch, or is there also no understanding? Am I the mother
of your four children or not? I would like to ask. I suppose you cannot
deny that, whatever else you deny which is true, and you tell me to choose
my language! _Da_, I will choose my language, in truth! _Da_, I will
choose out such a swarm of words as ought to sting your ears like hornets,
if you had not such a leathery skin and such a soft brain inside it. But
why should I? It is thrown away. There is no shame in you. You see
nothing, you care for nothing, you hear no reason, you feel no argument. I
will go home and make soup. I am better there than in the shop. Oh yes! it
is always that. Akulina can make good things to eat, and good tea and good
punch to drink, and Akulina is the Archangel Michael in the kitchen. But
if Akulina says to you, 'Save a penny here, do not lend more than you have
there,' Akulina is a fool and must be told to choose her language, lest it
be too indelicate for the dandified ears of the high-born gentleman! I
should not wonder if, by choosing her language carefully enough, Akulina
ended by making the high-born gentleman understand something after all.
His perception cannot possibly be so dull as yours, Christian
Gregorovitch, my little husband."
Akulina paused for breath after her tremendous invective, which, indeed,
was only intended by her for the preface of the real discourse, so fertile
was her imagination and so thoroughly roused was her eloquence by the
sense of injury received. While she was speaking, Fischelowitz, whose
terror of his larger half was only relative, had calmly risen and had
wound up the "Wiener Gigerl" to the extreme of the doll's powers, placing
it on the counter before him and sitting down before it in anticipation of
the amusement he expected to derive from its performance. In the short
silence which ensued while Akulina was resting her lungs for a second and
more deadly effort, the wretched little musical box made itself heard,
clicking and scratching and grinding out a miserable little polka. At the
sound, the sunny smile returned to the tobacconist's face. He knew that no
earthly eloquence, no scathing wit, no brutal reply could possibly
exasperate his wife as this must. He resented everything she had said, and
in his vulgar way he was ashamed that she should have said it before the
Count, and now he was glad that by the mere turning of a key he could
answer her storm of words in a way to drive her to fury, while at the same
time showing his own indifference. As for the Count himself, he had moved
nearer to the door and was looking quietly out into the irregularly
lighted street, smoking as though he had not heard a word of what had been
said. As he stood, it was impossible for either of the others to see his
face, and he betrayed no agitation by movement or gesture.
Akulina turned pale to the lips, as her husband had anticipated. It is
probable that the most tragic event conceivable in her existence could not
have affected her more powerfully than the twang of the musical box and
the twisting and turning of the insolent little wooden head. She came
round to the front of the counter with gleaming eyes and clenched fists.
"Stop that thing!" she cried, "Stop it, or it will drive me mad."
Fischelowitz still smiled, and the doll continued to turn round and round
to the tune, while the Count looked out through the open door. Suddenly
there was a quick shadow on the brightly lighted floor of the shop,
followed instantly by a crash, and then with a miserable attempt to finish
its tune the little instrument gave a resounding groan and was silent.
Akulina had struck the Gigerl such a blow as had sent it flying, pedestal
and all, past her husband's head into a dark corner behind the counter.
Fischelowitz reddened with anger, and Akulina stood ready to take to
flight, glad that the broad counter was between herself and her husband.
Her fury had spent itself in one blow and she would have given anything to
set the doll up in its place again unharmed. She realised at the same
instant that she had probably destroyed any intrinsic value which the
thing had possessed, and her face fell wofully. The Count turned slowly
where he stood and looked at the couple.
"Are you going to fight each other?" he inquired in unusually bland tones.
At the sound of his voice the Russian woman's anger rose again, glad to
find some new object upon which to expend itself and on which to exercise
vengeance for the catastrophe its last expression had brought about. She
turned savagely upon the Count and shook her plump brown fists in his
face.
"It is all your fault!" she exclaimed. "What business have you to come
between husband and wife with your friends and your cursed dolls, the
fiend take them, and you! Is it for this that Christian Gregorovitch and I
have lived together in harmony these ten years and more? Is it for this
that we have lived without a word of anger--"
"What did you say?" asked Fischelowitz, with an angry laugh. But she did
not heed him.
"Without a word of anger between us, these many years?" she continued. "Is
it for this? To have our peace destroyed by a couple of Wiener Gigerls, a
doll and a sham count? But it is over now! It is over, I tell you--go, get
yourself out of the shop, out of my sight, into the street where you
belong! For honest folks to be harbouring such a fellow as you are, and
not you only, but your friends and your rag and your tag! Fie! If you stay
here long we shall end in dust and feathers! But you shall not stay here,
whatever that soft-brained husband of mine says. You shall go and never
come back. Do you think that in all Munich there is no one else who will
do the work for three marks a thousand? Bah! there are scores, and honest
people, too, who call themselves by plain names and speak plainly! None of
your counts and your grand dukes and your Lord-knows-whats! Go, you
adventurer, you disturber of--why do you look at me like that? I have
always known the truth about you, and I have never been able to bear the
sight of you and never shall. You have deceived my husband, poor man,
because he is not as clever as he is good-natured, but you never could
deceive me, try as you would, and the Lord knows, you have tried often
enough. Pah! You good-for-nothing!"
The poor Count had drawn back against the well-filled shop and had turned
deadly pale as she heaped insult upon insult upon him in her incoherent
and foul-mouthed anger. As soon as she paused, exhausted by the effort to
find epithets to suit her hatred of him, he went up to the counter where
Fischelowitz was sitting, very much disturbed at the course events were
taking.
"My dear Count," began the latter, anxious to set matters right, "pray do
not pay any attention--"
"I think I had better say good-bye," answered the Count in a low tone. "We
part on good terms, though you might have said a word for me just now."
"He dare not!" cried Akulina.
"And as for the doll, if you will give it to me, I promise you that you
shall have your fifty marks to-morrow."
"Oho! He knows where to get fifty marks, now!" exclaimed Akulina,
viciously.
Fischelowitz picked up the puppet, which was broken in two in the waist,
so that the upper half of the body hung down by the legs, in a limp
fashion, held only by the little red coat. The tobacconist wrapped it up
in a piece of newspaper without a word and handed it to the Count. He felt
perhaps that the only atonement he could offer for his wife's brutal
conduct was to accede to the request.
"Thank you," said the Count, taking the thing. "On the word of a gentleman
you shall have the money before to-morrow night."
"A good riddance of both of them," snarled Akulina, as the Count lifted
his hat and then, his head bent more than was his wont, passed out of the
shop with the remains of the poor Gigerl under his arm.