"What is this row?" inquired the policeman in his official voice, as he
marched into the room.
The man who was wrestling with Dumnoff was a German and a soldier. At the
authoritative words he relaxed his hold and made an effort to free
himself, a movement of which the Russian instantly took advantage by
throwing his adversary heavily, upsetting another table and thereby
bringing the confusion to its crisis. How far he would have gone if he had
been left to himself is uncertain, for the sudden appearance of two more
men in green coats, helmets and gold collars so emboldened the spectators
of the fight that they advanced in a body just as Dumnoff threw himself
upon the first policeman. The Russian's red face was wet with
perspiration, his small eyes were gleaming ferociously and his thick hair
hung in tangled locks over his forehead, producing with his fair beard the
appearance of a wild animal's mane. But for the timely assistance of his
colleagues, the representatives of the law, and, most likely the majority
of the spectators would have found themselves in the street in an
exceedingly short space of time. But Dumnoff yielded to the inevitable; a
couple of well-planted blows delivered by the rescuing party on the sides
of his thick skull made him shake his head as a cat does when its nose is
sprinkled with water, and the mujik reluctantly relinquished the struggle.
At the same time the porter who had claimed the doll came forward and
touched his bare head with a military salute.
"What is your name?" asked the first policeman, anxious to get to
business.
"Jacob Goggelmann, Dienstmann number 87, formerly private in the Fourth
Artillery, lately messenger in the Thüringer Doll Manufactory."
"Very good," said the policeman, anxious to take the side of his
countryman from the first, and certainly justified in doing so by the
circumstances. "And what is your complaint?"
"That doll, there, on the table," said the porter, "was stolen from me on
New Year's eve, and now that man"--he pointed to the Count, who stood
stiffly looking on--"that man has got possession of it."
"And who stole it from you?" inquired the policeman with that acuteness in
the art of cross-examination for which the police are in all countries so
justly famous.
"Ja, Herr Wachtmeister, if I had known that--" suggested the porter.
"Of course, of course," interrupted the other. "That man stole the doll
from you, you say?"
"Somebody stole it with my basket, as I stopped to drink a measure in the
yard of the Hofbräuhaus, and I had to pay for it out of my caution money,
and I lost my place into the bargain, and there lies the accursed thing."
The policeman, apparently quite satisfied with the porter's story, turned
upon the Count with a blustering and overbearing manner.
"Now, then," he said, roughly, "give an account of yourself. Who are you
and what are you doing here? But that is a foolish question; I know
already that you are a Bohemian and a journeyman tinker."
"A Bohemian? And a journeyman tinker?" repeated the Count, almost
speechless with anger for a moment. "I am neither," he added, endeavouring
to control himself, and settling his refractory collar with one hand. "I
am a Russian gentleman."
"A gentleman--and a Russian," said the policeman, slowly, as though
putting no faith in the first statement and very little in the second. "I
think I can provide you with a lodging for the night," he added,
facetiously.
"Slip past me, jump out of the window and run!" whispered the Cossack in
the Count's ear, in Russian.
"What are you saying in your infernal language?" asked the official.
"My friend advised me to run away," said the Count, coolly sitting down,
as though he were master of the situation. "Unfortunately for me, I was
not taught to use my legs in that way when I was a boy."
"I was," said the Cossack. "Good-evening, Master Policeman." He took his
hat from the peg on the wall where it had hung undisturbed throughout the
confusion, and bowing gravely to the man in uniform made as though he
would go out of the room.
"So, so, not quite so fast, my friend," said the policeman, putting
himself in the way. "Heigh! heigh! Stop him! Don't let him go," he bawled,
a second later.
Schmidt had paused a minute, watching his opportunity, then, taking a
quick step backwards, he had vaulted through the open window with the
agility of a cat, and was flying down the empty street at the speed only
attainable by that deceptive domestic animal when pressed for time and
anxious for its own safety.
"Sobáka!" growled Domnoff, disgusted at his companion's defection.
"Either talk in a language that human beings can understand, or do not
talk at all," said one of the two men who guarded him.
Seeing that pursuit was useless, the spokesman of the police turned to the
Count, twice as blustering and terrible as before.
"This settles the question," he said. "To the police station you go, you
and your bear-man of an accomplice. Potzbombardendonnerwetter! You
Sappermentskerls! I will teach you to resist the police, to steal dolls
and to jump out of windows! Now then, right about face--march!"
The Count did not stir from his chair. Dumnoff looked at him as though to
ask instructions of a superior.
"If you can manage one of them, I can take these two," he said in Russian.
Suiting the action to the word, he suddenly bent down, slipped his arms
round the legs of the two policemen, hurled them simultaneously head over
heels and then charged the crowd, head downwards, upsetting every one who
came in his way, and bursting into the street by sheer superior weight and
impetus. An instant later, his shock head appeared at the window through
which the Cossack had escaped.
"Come along!" he shouted to the Count, in his own language. "I have locked
the street door and they cannot get out. Jump through the window."
"Go, my friend," answered the Count, calmly. "I will not run away."
"You had much better come," insisted Dumnoff, apparently indifferent to
the noise of the crowd as it tried to force open the closed door, and
shaking off two or three men who had made their way out into the street
with him. He held the key in one hand, and his assailants had small chance
of getting it away.
"You will not come?" he repeated. But the Count shook his head, within the
room.
"Then I will not run away either," said Dumnoff, the good side of his dull
nature showing itself at last. With the utmost indifference to
consequences he returned to the door, unlocked it, and strode through the
midst of the people, who made way readily enough before him, after their
late painful experience of his manner of making way for himself.
"I have changed my mind," he said, in German, quietly placing himself
between his late keepers, who were alternately rubbing themselves and
brushing the dust off each other's clothes after their tumble.
In the astonished silence which succeeded Dumnoff's return, the Count's
voice was heard again.
"I am both anxious and ready to explain everything, if you will do me the
civility to listen," he said. "The doll is the property of Herr
Fischelowitz, the well-known tobacconist--"
"We shall see presently what you have to say for yourself," interrupted
the policeman. "We have had enough of these devilish fellows. Come, put
them in handcuffs and off with them. And you three gentlemen," he added,
turning to the three porters, "will have the goodness to accompany us to
the station, in order to give your evidence."
"But my furniture and my beer saucers!" exclaimed the pallid host,
suddenly remembering his losses. "Who is to pay for them?"
The Count answered the question for him.
"You, Master Host, who know us and have had our regular custom for years,
but who have not dared to say a word in our defence throughout this
disgraceful affair, you, I say, deserve to lose all that you have lost.
Nevertheless, I can assure you that I will myself pay for what has been
broken."
The host was not much consoled by this magnanimous promise, which was
received with jeers by the crowd. There was no time, however, to discuss
the question. Dumnoff had quietly submitted his two huge fists to the
handcuffs and a second pair was produced, to fit the Count. At this
indignity he drew himself up proudly.
"Have I resisted the authority, or attempted to run away?" he inquired
with flashing eyes.
The policeman had nothing to say to this very just question.
"Then I advise you to consider what you are doing. In spite of my
appearance, which, I admit, is at present somewhat disorderly, I am a
Russian nobleman, as you will discover so soon as I am submitted to a
properly conducted examination in the presence of your officers. I have
not the least intention of running away, and if this doll was stolen, I
was not connected in any way with the theft. Since I respect the
authorities, I insist upon being respected by them, and if I am treated in
a degrading manner in spite of my protests, there are those in Munich who
will bring the case to proper notice in my own country. I am ready to
accompany you quietly wherever you choose to show me the way."
Something in his manner impressed the officials with the possible truth of
his words. They looked at each other and nodded.
"Very well," said the one who was conducting the arrest.
"Moreover," said the Count, "I crave permission to carry myself the object
of contention, until the other claimant has established his right of
possession."
So saying the Count took the broken Gigerl from the table where it lay,
and carrying it upon his hands before him, like a baby, he solemnly walked
in the direction of the door, thus heading the procession, which was
accompanied into the street by the idlers who had collected inside.
"God be thanked," said the old woman in the corner devoutly, "I have yet
my beer!"
"And to think that only one of them has paid for his supper," moaned the
pale-faced innkeeper, sitting down upon a chair and contemplating the
wreck of his belongings with a haggard eye. The "Gigerl-night" was
remembered for many a long year in the "Green Wreath Inn."
At the police station the arresting party told their own story in their
own way, very much to the disadvantage of the Russians and very much in
favour of the porters and of the officials themselves. The latter, indeed,
enlarged so much upon the atrocities perpetrated by Dumnoff as to weary
the superior officer. The Cossack having escaped, the policemen did not
mention him. The officer glanced at Dumnoff.
"Your name?" he inquired.
"Victor Ivanowitch Dumnoff."
"Occupation?"
"Cigarette-maker in the manufactory of Christian Fischelowitz."
"Lock him up," said the officer. "Resisting the police in the execution of
an arrest," he added, speaking to the scribe at his elbow.
"Your name?" continued he, addressing the Count. "Boris Michaelovitch,
Count Skariatine."
"Count?" repeated the officer. "We shall see. Occupation?"
"I have been occupied in the manufacture of cigarettes," answered the
Count. "But as I was only engaged in this during a period of temporary
embarrassment from which I shall be relieved to-morrow, I may be described
as having no particular occupation."
The officer stared incredulously for a moment and then nodded to the
scribe in token that he was to write down what was said.
"Charged with having stolen a doll, is that it?" He turned to the
policeman in charge.
"Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann."
"May it please you, Herr Hauptmann, I did not say that," put in the
porter, coming forward.
"Who are you?"
"The man from whom the doll was stolen. Jacob Goggelmann, Dienstmann
number 87, formerly private in the Fourth Artillery, lately messenger in
the Thüringer Doll Manufactory."
"When was the doll stolen?"
"Last New Year's eve," answered the porter.
"And you have not seen it until to-day?"
"No, Herr Hauptmann."
"Then how do you know it is the same one? I suppose it is not the only
doll of its kind in Munich."
"I am sure of it. I was a messenger in the shop, Herr Hauptmann, and I
knew everything there, just as though I had been one of the young ladies
who serve the customers. Besides, you will find my name written in pencil
under the pedestal."
"That is another matter," said the officer, taking the Gigerl and holding
it upside down to the gaslight. The reversing of the thing's natural
position produced some mysterious effect upon the musical box, and the
tune which had been so rudely interrupted by Akulina's well-aimed blow,
suddenly began again from the point at which it had stopped, continuing
for a few bars and then coming to an end with a sharp twang and a little
click. The policemen tittered audibly, and even the captain smiled faintly
in his big yellow beard. Then he knit his brows as he deciphered something
which was written on the pinewood under the base.
"You should have said so at once," he observed. "Your name is there, as
you assert."
"It was written to show that I was to take it. I had it in a basket with
other things. I put it down a moment in the yard of the Hofbräuhaus, and
when I came back the basket was gone."
"And what do you know about it?" The question was addressed to the Count.
"Seeing that the porter is evidently right," said the Count, covering with
his hat the point from which the button had been torn, and holding the
other hand rather nervously to his throat, as though trying to keep
himself from falling to pieces, "I have nothing more to say. I will not be
accused of inculpating any one in this disastrous affair. I will only say
that the doll has stood since early in the year in the show window of
Christian Fischelowitz, the tobacconist, who certainly had no knowledge of
the way in which it was obtained by the person who brought it to him."
"He is an extremely respectable person," observed the officer. "If you can
prove what you say, I will not detain you further. Have you any witness
here?"
"There is Herr Dumnoff," said the Count. The officer smiled and
perpetrated an official jest.
"Herr Dumnoff has given evidence of great strength, but owing to his
peculiar situation at the present time, I cannot trust to the strength of
his evidence."
The policemen laughed respectfully.
"Have you no one else?" asked the officer.
"Herr Fischelowitz will willingly vouch for what I say."
"At this hour, Herr Fischelowitz is doubtless asleep, and would certainly
be justified in refusing to come here out of mere complaisance. I am
afraid, Count Skariatine, that I must have the honour of being your host
until morning."
"It is impossible to describe our relative positions with greater
courtesy," answered the Count, gravely, and not taking the least notice of
the officer's ironical tone. The latter looked at the speaker curiously
and then suddenly changed his manner. He was convinced that he was
speaking with a gentleman.
"I regret that I am obliged to put you to such inconvenience," he said,
politely. "Treat the gentleman with every consideration," he added,
addressing the policemen in a tone of authority, "and let me have no
complaints of unnecessary rudeness either."
"I thank you, Herr Hauptmann," said the Count, simply.
Thus was the Count deprived of his liberty on the very eve of his return
to all the brilliant advantages of wealth and social station. It was
certainly a most unfortunate train of circumstances which had led him by
such quick stages from his parting with Vjera to the wooden bench and the
board pillow of the police-station. It looked as though the Gigerl were
possessed of an evil spirit determined to work out the Count's
destruction, as though the wretched adventurer who had first stolen it and
palmed it off upon Fischelowitz had laid a curse upon it, whereby it was
destined to breed dissension and strife wherever it remained and to the
direct injury of whomsoever chanced to possess it for the time being. It
had been the cause of serious disaster to the porter in the first
instance, it had next represented to Fischelowitz a dead loss in money of
fifty marks, it had become a thorn in the side to Akulina, it had led to
one of the most violent quarrels she had ever engaged in with her husband,
its limp and broken form had cost much broken crockery and some broken
furniture to the host of the "Green Wreath Inn," had been the cause of
several ponderous blows dealt and received by Dumnoff, had produced the
violent fall, upon a hard board floor, of a porter and two policemen and
had ultimately brought the Count to prison for the night. Its value had
become very great, for it had been paid for twice over, once by the man
from whom it had been stolen, by the forfeiture of his caution money, and
once by Fischelowitz in the sum of fifty marks lent to an adventurer;
furthermore, the Count had solemnly pledged his word as a gentleman to pay
for it a third time on the morrow, he having in his worldly possession the
sum of one silver mark and two German pennies at the time of entering into
the engagement. The actual sum of money paid and promised to be paid on
the body of the now ruined Gigerl, now amounted, with interest, to more
than four times its original value, thus constituting one of those
interesting problems in real and comparative value so interesting to the
ingenuous political economist, who believes that all value can be traced
to supply and demand. Now, although the Gigerl was but a single doll, the
supply of him, so to speak, had been surprisingly abundant, and the
demand, if represented by the desire of any one person concerned to
possess him, may be represented by the smallest of zeros. The
consideration of so intricate a question belongs neither to the inventor
of fiction nor to the historian of facts, and may therefore be abandoned
to the political economist, who may, perhaps, be said to partake of the
nature of both while possessing the virtues of neither.
The Count was in prison, therefore, on the eve of his return to splendour,
and his companion in captivity was Dumnoff the mujik. They found
themselves in a well-ventilated room, having high grated windows, through
which the stars were visible, and dimly lighted by a small gas flame which
burned in a lantern of white ground glass. The place was abundantly, if
not luxuriously, furnished with flat wooden pallets, each having at the
head a slanting piece of board supposed to do duty for a pillow. Outside
the open door a policeman paced the broad passage, a man taken from the
mounted detachment and whose scabbard and spurs clattered and jingled,
hour after hour, as he walked. The sound produced something half
rhythmical, like a broken tune in search of itself, and the change of
sentinels made no perceptible difference in the regular nature of the
unceasing noise.
Dumnoff, relieved of his handcuffs, stretched himself upon the pallet
assigned to him, clasped his hands under the back of his head, and stared
at the ceiling. The Count sat upon the edge of his board, crossing one
knee over the other and looking at his nails, or trying to look at them in
the insufficient light. In some distant part of the building a door was
occasionally opened and shut, and the slight concussion sent long echoes
down the stone passages. The Count sighed audibly.
"It is not so bad, after all," remarked Dumnoff. "I did not expect to end
the evening so comfortably."
"It is bad enough," said the Count. He produced a crumpled piece of
newspaper which contained a little tobacco, and rolled a cigarette
thoughtfully. "It is bad enough," he repeated as he began to smoke.
"It would have been very easy to get away, if you had done like that brute
of a Schmidt who ran away and left us."
"I do not think Schmidt is a brute," observed the other, blowing a huge
ring of white smoke out into the dusk.
"I did not think so either. But I had arranged it all very well for you to
get away--only you would not. You see, by an accident, the key was outside
the door, so I kicked the people back and locked it. It would have taken a
quarter of an hour for them to open it, and if you had only jumped--"
He turned his head, and glanced at the Count's spare, sinewy figure.
"You are light, too," he continued, "and you could not have hurt yourself.
I cannot understand why you stayed."
"Dumnoff, my friend," said the Count, gravely, "we look at things in a
different way. It is my duty to tell you that I think you behaved in the
most honourable manner, under the circumstances, and I am deeply indebted
to you for the gallant way in which you came back to stand by me, when you
were yourself free. In a nobler warfare, such an action would have been
rewarded with a cross of honour, as it truly deserved. It is true, as
well, that you were not so intimately connected with the main question at
stake, as I was, since it was I who was suspected of being in possession
of unlawfully gotten goods. You were consequently, I think, at liberty to
take your freedom if you could get it, without consulting your conscience
further. Now my position was, and is, very different. I do not speak of
any personal prejudice against the mere act of running away, considered as
an immediate means of escape from disagreeable circumstances, with the
hope of ultimate immunity from all unpleasant consequences. That is a
matter of early education."
"I had very little early education," observed Dumnoff. "And none at all
afterwards."
"My friend, it is not for you and me to enter into the history of our
misfortunes. We have met in the vat of poverty to be seethed alike in the
brew of unhappiness. We have sat at the same daily labour, we have shared
often the same fare, but there is that in each of us which we can keep
sacred from the contamination of confidence, and which will withstand even
the thrusts of poverty. I mean our individual selves, the better part of
us, the nobler element which has suffered, as distinguished from the
grosser, which may yet enjoy. But I am wandering a little. I am afraid I
sometimes do. I return to the point. For me to take advantage of your
generous attempt to free me would have been to act as though I had a moral
cause for flight. In other words, it would have been to acknowledge that I
had committed some dishonourable action."
"It seems to me that to get away would have been the best way out of it.
They would not have caught you if you had trusted to me, and if they did
not catch you they could not prove anything against you."
"The suspicion would have remained, and the disgrace in my own eyes,"
answered the Count. "The question of physical fear is very different. I
have been told that it depends upon the nerves and the action of the
heart, and that courage is greatly increased by the presence of
nourishment in the stomach. The same cannot be said of moral bravery,
which proceeds more from the fear of seeming contemptible in our own eyes
than from the wish to seem honourable in the estimation of others."
"I daresay," said Dumnoff, who was growing sleepy and who understood very
little of his companion's homily.
"Precisely," replied the latter. "And yet even the question of physical
courage is very complicated in the present case. It cannot be said, for
instance, that you ran away from physical fear, after giving proof of such
astonishing physical superiority. Your deeds this evening make the labours
of Hercules dwindle to the proportions of mere mountebank's tricks."
"Was anybody badly injured?" asked Dumnoff, suddenly aroused by the
pleasing recollections of the contest.
"I believe not seriously; I think I saw everybody whom you upset get on
his feet sooner or later."
"Well," said Dumnoff with a sigh, "it cannot be helped. I did my best."
"I should think that you would be glad," suggested the Count. "You showed
your prowess without any fatal result."
"Anything for a change in this dull life," grumbled the peasant with an
air of dissatisfaction.
"With such a prospect of immediate change before me, I suppose I ought not
to blame your longing for excitement. Nevertheless I consider it fortunate
that nothing worse happened."
"You might take me with you to Russia," said Dumnoff, with a short laugh.
"That would be an excitement, at least."
"After the way in which you have stood by me this evening, I will not
refuse you anything. If you wish it, I will take you with me. I take it
for granted that you are not prevented by any especial reason from
entering our country."
"Not that I am aware of," laughed Dumnoff. "Do you know how I got to
Germany? A gentleman from our part of the country brought me with him as
coachman. One day the horses ran away in Baden-Baden, and he turned me out
of the house."
"That was very inconsiderate of him," observed the Count.
"It is true that both the horses were killed," said Dumnoff, thoughtfully.
"And the prince broke his arm, and the carriage was in good condition for
firewood, and possibly I was a little gay--just a little--though I was so
much upset by the accident that I could not remember exactly what happened
before. Still--"
"Your conduct on that particular day seems to have left much to be
desired," remarked the Count with some austerity.
"It has been my bad luck to be in a great many accidents," said the other.
"But that one was remarkable. As far as I can recollect, we drove into the
Grand Duke's four-in-hand on one side and drove out of it on the other. I
never drove through a Grand Duke's equipage on any other occasion. It was
lucky that his Serenity did not happen to be in it just at the time. There
you have my history in a nutshell. As you say you will take me with you, I
thought you ought to know."
"Certainly, certainly," answered the Count, vaguely. "I will take you with
me--but not as coachman, I think, Dumnoff. We may find some more
favourable sphere for your great physical strength."
"Anything you like. It is a good joke to dream of such a journey, is it
not? Especially when one is locked up for the night in the
police-station."
"It is certainly a relief to contemplate the prospect of such a change
to-morrow," said the Count, his expression brightening in the gloom.
For a few moments there was silence between the two men. Dumnoff's small
eyes fixed themselves on the shadowy outlines of his companion's face, as
though trying to solve a problem far too complicated for his dull
intellect.
"I wonder whether you are really mad," he said slowly, after a prolonged
mental effort.
The Count started slightly and stared at the ex-coachman with a frightened
look.
"Mad?" he repeated, nervously. "Who says I am mad? Why do you ask the
question?"
"Most people say so," replied the other, evidently without any intention
of giving pain. "Everybody who works with us thinks so."
"Everybody? Everybody? I think you are dreaming, Dumnoff. What do you
mean?"
"I mean that they think so because you have those queer fits of believing
yourself a rich count every week, from Tuesday night till Thursday
morning. Schmidt was saying only yesterday to poor Vjera--"
"Vjera? Does she believe it too?" asked the Count in an unsteady voice,
not heeding the rest of the speech.
"Of course," said Dumnoff, carelessly. "Schmidt was saying to me only
yesterday that you were going to have a worse attack of it than usual
because you were so silent."
"Vjera, too!" repeated the Count in a low voice. "And no one ever told
me--" He passed his hand over his eyes.
"Tell me"--Dumnoff began in the tone of jocular familiarity which he
considered confidential--"tell me--the whole thing is just a joke of yours
to amuse us all, is it not? You do not really believe that you are a
count, any more than I really believe that you are mad, you know. You do
not act like a madman, except when you let the police catch you and lock
you up for the night, instead of running away like a sensible man."
The Count's face grew bright again all at once. In the present state of
his hopes no form of doubt seemed able to take a permanent hold of him.
"No, I am not mad," he said. "But on the other hand, Dumnoff, it is my
conviction that you are exceedingly drunk. No other hypothesis can account
for your very singular remarks about me."
"Oh, I am drunk, am I?" laughed the peasant. "It is very likely, and in
that case I had better go to sleep. Good-night, and do not forget that you
are to take me with you to Russia."
"I will not forget," said the Count.
Dumnoff stretched his heavy limbs on the wooden pallet, rolled his great
head once or twice from side to side until his fur-like hair made
something like a cushion and then, in the course of three minutes, fell
fast asleep.
The Count sat upright in his place, drumming with his fingers upon one
knee.
"It is a wonder that I am not mad," he said to himself. "But Vjera never
thought it of me--and that fellow is evidently the worse for liquor."