The Count, as Vjera supposed, had dressed himself with even greater care
than usual in anticipation of the official visit, and while she was
working through the never-ending hours of her weary day, he was calmly
seated upon a chair by the open window in his little room, one leg crossed
over the other, one hand thrust into the bosom of his coat and the other
extended idly upon the table by his side. His features expressed the
perfect calm and satisfaction of a man who knows that something very
pleasant is about to happen, who has prepared himself for it, and who sits
in the midst of his swept and garnished dwelling in an attitude of pleased
expectancy.
The Count's face was tired, indeed, and there were dark circles under his
sunken grey eyes, brought there by loss of sleep as much as by an habitual
facility for forgetting to eat and drink. But in the eyes themselves there
was a bright, unusual light, as though some brilliant spectacle were
reflected in them out of the immediate future. There was colour, too, in
his lean cheeks, a slight flush like that which comes into certain dark
faces with the anticipation of any keen pleasure. As he sat in his chair,
he looked constantly at the door of the room, as though expecting it to
open at any moment. From time to time, voices and footsteps were heard on
the stairs, far below. When any of these sounds reached him, the Count
rose gravely from his seat, and stood in the middle of the room, slowly
rubbing his hands together, listening again, moving a step to the one side
or the other and back again, in the mechanical manner of a person to whom
a visitor has been announced and who expects to see him appear almost
immediately. But the footsteps echoed and died away and the voices were
still again. The Count stood still a few moments when this happened,
satisfying himself that he had been mistaken, and then, shaking his head
and once more passing his hands round each other, he resumed his seat and
his former attitude. He listened also for the chiming of the hours, and
when he was sure that an hour had passed since the arrival of his
imaginary express train, he rose again, looked out of the window, watched
the wheeling of the house swallows, and assumed an air of momentary
indifference. The next ringing of the clock bells revived the illusion.
Another train was doubtless just running in to the station, and in a
quarter of an hour his friends might be with him. There was no time to be
lost. The flush returned to his cheeks as he hastily combed his smooth
hair for the twentieth time, examining his appearance minutely in the
dingy, spotted mirror, brushing his clothes--far too well brushed these
many years--and lastly making sure that there was no weak point in the
adjustment of his false collar. He made another turn of inspection round
his little room, feeling sure that there was just time to see that all was
right and in order, but already beginning to listen for a noise of
approaching people on the stairs. Once more he straightened and arranged
the patched coverlet of Turkey red cotton upon the bed, so that it should
hide the pillows and the sheets; once more he adjusted the clean towel
neatly upon the wooden peg over the washing-stand, discreetly concealing
the one he had used in the drawer of the table; for the last time he made
sure that the chair which had the broken leg was in such close and perfect
contact with the wall as to make it safely serviceable if not rashly
removed into a wider sphere of action. Then, as he passed the chest of
drawers, he gave a final touch to the half-dozen ragged-edged books which
composed his library--three volumes of Puschkin, of three different
editions, Ivan Kryloff's _Poems and Fables_, Gogol's _Terrible Revenge_,
Tolstoi's _How People Live_, and two or three more, including Koltsoff,
the shepherd poet, and an ancient guide to the city of Kiew--as
heterogeneous a collection of works as could be imagined, yet all notable
in their way, except, indeed, the guide-book, for beauty, power, or
touching truth.
And when he had touched and straightened everything in the room, he
returned to his seat, calmly expectant as ever, to wait for the footsteps
on the stairs, to rise and rub his hands, if the sound reached him, to
shake his head gravely if he were again disappointed, in short to go
through the same little round of performance as before until some chiming
clock suggested to his imagination that the train had come and brought no
one, and that he might enjoy an interval of distraction in looking out of
the window until the next one arrived. The Count must have had a very
exaggerated idea of the facility of communication between Munich and
Russia, for he assuredly stood waiting for his friends, combed, brushed,
and altogether at his best, more than twenty times between the morning and
the evening. As the day declined, indeed, his imaginary railway station
must have presented a scene of dangerous confusion, for his international
express trains seemed to come in quicker and quicker succession, until he
barely had time to look out of the window before it became necessary to
comb his hair again in order to be ready for the next possible arrival. At
last he walked perpetually on a monotonous beat from the window to the
mirror, from the mirror to the door, and from the door to the mirror
again.
Suddenly he stopped and tapped his forehead with his hand. The sun was
setting and the last of his level rays shot over the sea of roofs and the
forest of chimneys and entered the little room in a broad red stream,
illuminating the lean, nervous figure as it stood still in the ruddy
light.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the Count, in a tone of great anxiety, "I have
forgotten Fischelowitz and his money."
There was a considerable break in the continuity of the imaginary
time-table, for he stood still a long time, in deep thought. He was
arguing the case in his mind. What he had promised was, to consider the
fifty marks as a debt of honour. Now a debt of honour must be paid within
twenty-four hours. No doubt, thought the Count, it would not be altogether
impossible to consider the twenty-four hours as extending from midnight to
midnight. The Russians have an expression which means a day and a night
together--they call that space of time the sutki, and it is a more or less
elastic term, as we say "from day to day," "from one evening to another."
Rooms in Russian hotels are let by the sutki, railway tickets are valid
for one or more sutki, and the Count might have chosen to consider that
his sutki extended from the time when he had spoken to Fischelowitz until
twelve o'clock on the following night. But he had no means of knowing
exactly what the time had been when he had been in the shop, and his
punctilious ideas of honour drove him to under-estimate the number of
hours still at his disposal. Moreover, and this last consideration
determined his action, if he brought the money too late it was to be
feared that Fischelowitz would have shut up the shop, after which there
would be no certainty of finding him. The Count wished to make the
restitution of the money in Akulina's presence, but he was also determined
to give the fifty marks directly to the tobacconist.
He saw that the sun was going down, and that there was no time to be lost.
It occurred to him at the same instant that if he was to pay the debt at
all, he must find money for that purpose, and although, in his own belief,
he was to be master of a large fortune in the course of the evening, no
scheme for raising so considerable a sum as fifty marks presented itself
to his imagination. Poor as he was, he was far more used to lending than
to borrowing, and more accustomed to giving than to either. He regretted,
now, that he had bound himself to pay the debt to-day. It would have been
so easy to name the next day but one. But who could have foreseen that his
friends would miss that particular train and only arrive late in the
evening?
He paced his room in growing anxiety, his trouble increasing in exact
proportion with the decrease of the daylight.
"Fifty marks!" he exclaimed, in dismay, as he realised more completely the
dilemma in which he was placed. "Fifty marks! It is an enormous sum to
find at a moment's notice. If they had only telegraphed me a credit at
once, I could have got it from a bank--a bank--yes--but they do not know
me. That is it. They do not know me. And then, it is late."
The drops of perspiration stood on his pale forehead as he began to walk
again. He glanced at his possessions and turned from the contemplation of
them in renewed despair. Many a time, before, he had sought among his very
few belongings for some object upon which a pawnbroker might advance five
marks, and he had sought in vain. The furniture of the room was not his,
and beyond the furniture the room contained little enough. He had parted
long ago with an old silver watch, of which the chain had even sooner
found its way to the lender's. A long-cherished ring had disappeared last
winter, by an odd coincidence, at the very time when Johann Schmidt's
oldest child was lying ill with diphtheria. As for clothing, he had
nothing to offer. The secrets of his outward appearance were known to him
alone, but they were of a nature to discourage the hope of raising money
on coat or trousers. A few well-thumbed volumes of Russian authors could
not be expected to find a brilliant sale in Munich at a moment's notice.
He looked about, and he saw that there was nothing, and he turned very
pale.
"And yet, before midnight, it must be paid," he said. Then his face
brightened again. "Before midnight--but they will be here before then, of
course. Perhaps I may borrow the money for a few hours."
But in order to do this, or to attempt it, he must go out. What if his
friends arrived at the moment when he was out of the house?
"No," he said, consulting his imaginary time-table, "there is no train
now, for a couple of hours, at least."
He took up his hat and turned to go. It struck him, however, that to
provide against all possible accidents it would be as well to leave some
written word upon his table, and he took up a sheet of writing paper and a
pen. It was remarkable that there was a good supply of the former on the
table, and that the inkstand contained ink in a fluid state, as though the
Count were in the habit of using it daily. He wrote rapidly, in Russian.
"This line is to inform you that Count Skariatine is momentarily absent
from his lodging on a matter of urgent importance, connected with a
personal engagement. He will return as soon as possible and requests that
you will have the goodness to wait, if you should happen to arrive while
he is out."
He set the piece of notepaper upright, in a prominent position upon the
table, and exactly opposite to the door. He did not indeed recollect that
in the course of half an hour the room would be quite dark, and he was
quite satisfied that he had taken every reasonable precaution against
missing his visitors altogether. Once more he seized his hat, and a moment
later he was descending the long flights of stairs towards the street. As
he went, the magnitude of the sum of money he needed appalled him, and by
the time he stepped out upon the pavement into the fresh evening air, he
was in a state of excitement and anxiety which bordered on distraction.
His brain refused to act any longer, and he was utterly incapable of
thinking consecutively of anything, still less of solving a problem so
apparently incapable of solution as was involved in the question of
finding fifty marks at an hour's notice. It was practically of little use
to repeat the words "Fifty marks" incessantly and in an audible voice, to
the great surprise of the few pedestrians he met. It was far from likely
that any of them would consider themselves called upon to stop in their
walk and to produce two large gold pieces and a small one, for the benefit
of an odd-looking stranger. And yet, as he hurried along the street, the
poor Count had not the least idea where he was going, and if he should
chance to reach any definite destination in his erratic course he would
certainly be much puzzled to decide what he was to do upon his arrival.
The one thing which remained clearly defined in his shaken intelligence
was that he must pay to Fischelowitz the money promised within the limit
of time agreed upon, or be disgraced for ever in his own eyes, as well as
in the estimation of the world at large. The latter catastrophe would be
bad enough, but nothing short of self-destruction could follow upon his
condemnation of himself.
A special Providence is said to watch over the movements of madmen,
sleep-walkers and drunkards. Those who find difficulty in believing in the
direct intervention of Heaven in very trivial matters of everyday life,
are satisfied to put a construction of less tremendous import upon the
facts in cases concerning the preservation of their irresponsible
brethren. A great deal may be accounted for by considering what are the
instincts of the body when momentarily liberated from the directing
guidance of the mind. It has been already noticed in the course of this
story that, when the Count did not know where he was going, he was
generally making the best of his way to the establishment in which so much
of his time was passed. This is exactly what took place on the present
occasion. Conscious only of his debt, and not knowing where to find money
with which to pay it, he was unwittingly hurrying towards the very place
in which the payment was to be made, and, within a quarter of an hour of
his leaving his lodging, he found himself standing on the pavement, over
against the tobacconist's shop, stupidly gazing at the glass door, the
well-known sign and the familiar, dilapidated chalet of cigarettes which
held a prominent place in the show window. No longer ago than yesterday
afternoon the little Swiss cottage had been flanked by the Wiener Gigerl,
whose smart red coat and insolent face had been the cause of so much
disaster and anxiety during the past twenty-four hours. The very fact that
the doll was no longer there, in its accustomed place, served to remind
the Count of his rash promise to pay the money and dangerously increased
the excitement which already possessed him. He wiped the cold drops from
his brow and leaned for a moment against the brick wall behind him. He was
dizzy, confused and tired.
The tormenting thought that was driving him recalled his failing
consciousness of outer things. He straightened himself again and made a
step forward, as though he would cross the street, but paused again before
his foot had left the pavement. Then he asked of his senses how he had got
to the place where he stood. He did not remember traversing the familiar
highways and byways by which he was accustomed daily to make his way from
his lodging to the shop. Every object on the way had long been so well
known to him as to cause a permanent impression in his brain, which was
distinctly visible to him whenever he thought of the walk in any way,
whether he had just been over the ground or not. He could not now account
to himself for his being so near Fischelowitz's shop, and he found it
impossible to decide whether he had come thither by his usual route or
not. It was still harder to explain the reason for his coming, since the
fifty marks were no nearer to his hand than before, and without them it
was useless to think of entering. As he stood there, hesitating and trying
to grasp the situation more clearly, it grew, on the contrary, more and
more confused. At the same time the bells of a neighbouring church struck
the hour, and the clanging tone revived in his mind the other impression,
which had possessed it all day, the impression that his friends were at
that moment arriving at the railway station. The confusion in his thoughts
became intolerable, and he covered his eyes with one hand, steadying
himself by pressing the other against the wall.
He did not know how long he had stood thus, when an anxious voice recalled
him to outer things--a voice in which love, sympathy, tenderness and
anxiety for him had taken possession of the weak tones and lent them a
passing thrill of touching music.
"In Heaven's name--what is it? Speak to me--I am Vjera--here, beside you."
He looked up suddenly, and seemed to recover his self-possession.
"You came just in time, Vjera--God bless you. I--" he hesitated. "I
think--I must have been a little dizzy with the heat. It is a warm
evening--a very warm evening."
He pressed an old silk pocket-handkerchief to his moist brow, the
pocket-handkerchief which he always had about him, freshly ironed and
smoothly folded, on the day when he expected his friends. Vjera, her face
pale with distress, passed her arm through his and made as though she
would walk with him down the gentle slope of the street, which leads in
the direction of the older city. He suffered himself to be led a few steps
in silence.
"Where are you going, Vjera?" he asked, stopping again and looking into
her face.
"Wherever you like," she said, trying to speak cheerfully. She saw that
something terrible was happening, and it was only by a desperate effort
that she controlled the violent hysterical emotion that rose like a great
lump in her throat.
"Ah, that is it, Vjera," he answered. "That is it. Where shall I go,
child?" Then he laughed nervously. "The fact is," he continued, "that I am
in a very absurd position. I do not at all know what to do."
Perhaps he had tried to give himself courage by the attempt to laugh, but,
in that case, he had failed for the present. In spite of his words his
despair was evident. His usually erect carriage was gone. His head sank
wearily forward, his shoulders rounded themselves as though under a
burden, his feet dragged a little as he tried to walk on again, and he
leaned heavily on the young girl's arm.
"What is it?" she asked. "Tell me--perhaps I can help you--I mean--I beg
your pardon," she added, humbly, "perhaps it would help you to speak of
it. That sometimes makes things seem clearer just when they have been most
confused."
"Perhaps so, Vjera, perhaps so. You are a very good girl, and you came
just in time. I love you, Vjera--do not forget that I love you." His voice
was by turns sharp and suddenly low and monotonous, like that of a man
talking in sleep. Altogether his manner was so strange that poor Vjera
feared the very worst. The extremity of her anxiety kept her from losing
her self-possession. For the first time in her life she felt that she was
the stronger of the two, and that if he was to be saved it must be by her
efforts rather than by anything he was now able to do for himself. She
loved him, mad or sane, with an admiration and a devotion which took no
account of his intellectual state except to grieve over it for his own
sake. The belief that in this crisis she might be of use to him, strongly
conquered the rising hysterical passion, and drove the tears so far from
her eyes that she wondered vaguely why she had been so near to shedding
them a few moments sooner. She pressed his arm with her hand.
"And I, too, I love you, with all my heart and soul," she said. "And if
you will tell me what has happened, I will do what I can--if it were my
life that were needed. I know I can help you, for God will help me."
He raised his head a little and again stood still, gazing into her eyes
with an odd sort of childish wonder.
"What makes you so strong, Vjera? You used to be a weak little thing."
"Love," she answered.
It was strange to see such a man, outwardly lean, tough-looking, well put
together and active, though not, indeed, powerful, looking at the poor
white-faced girl and asking the secret of her strength, as though he
envied it. But at that moment, the natural situation was reversed. His
eyes were lustreless, tired, without energy. Hers were suddenly bright and
flashing with determination, and with the expression of her new-found
will. Vjera felt that all at once a change had come over her, the weak
strings of her heart grew strong, the dreamy hopelessness of her thoughts
fell away, leaving one clearly defined resolution in its place. The man
she loved was going mad, and she would save him, cost what it might.
That Faith, no larger than the tiniest mustard seed, but able to toss the
mountains, as pebbles, from their foundations into the sea, is the
determination to do the thing chosen to be done or to die--literally, to
die--in the trying to do it. Death is farther from most of us than we
fancy, and if we would but risk all, to win or lose all, we could almost
always do the deed which looks so grimly impossible. Those who have faced
great physical dangers, or who have been matched by fate against
overwhelming odds of anxiety and trouble, alone know what great things are
done when men stand at bay and face the world, and fate, and life, and
death and misfortune, all banded together against them, and say in their
hearts, "We will win this fight or die." Then, at that word, when it is
spoken earnestly, in sincerity and truth, the iron will rises up and takes
possession of the feeble body, the doubting soul shakes off its hesitating
weakness, is drawn back upon itself like a strong bow bent double, is
compressed and full of a terrible latent power, like the handful of deadly
explosive which, buried in the bosom of the rock, will presently shake the
mighty cliff to its roots, as no thunderbolt could shake it.
Vjera had made up her mind that she would save the man she loved from the
destruction which was coming upon him. How he was to be saved, she knew
not, but then and there, on the pavement of the commonplace Munich street,
she made her stand and faced the odds, as bravely as ever soldier faced
the enemy's triumphant charge, though she was only a forlorn little Polish
shell-maker, without much health or strength, and having very little
understanding of the danger beyond that which was given to her by her
love.
She fixed her eyes upon the Count's face as though she would have him obey
her.
"I will help you, and make everything right," she said. "But you must tell
me what the trouble is."
"But how can you help me, child?" he asked, beginning to grow calmer under
her clear gaze. "It is such a very complicated case," he continued,
falling back gradually into his own natural manner. "You see, my friends
have probably arrived by this train, and yet I cannot go home until I have
set this other matter right with Fischelowitz. It is true, I have left a
word written for them on my table, and perhaps they are there now, waiting
for me, and if I went home I could have the money at once. But then--it
may be too late before I get here again--"
"What money?" asked Vjera, anxious to get at the truth without delay.
"Oh, it is an absurd thing," he answered, growing nervous again. "Quite
absurd--and yet, it is fifty marks--and until they come, I do not see what
to do. Fifty marks--to-day it seems so much, and to-morrow it will seem so
little!" He made a poor attempt to smile, but his voice trembled.
"But these fifty marks--what do you need them for to-night?" Vjera asked,
not understanding at all. "Will not to-morrow do as well?"
"No, no!" he cried in renewed anxiety. "It must be to-night, now, this
very hour. If I do not pay the money, I am ruined, Vjera, disgraced for
ever. It is a debt of honour--you do not understand what that means,
child, nor how terrible it is for a man not to pay before the day is
over--ah, if it were not a debt of honour!--but there is no time to be
lost. It is almost dark already. Go home, dear Vjera, go home. I cannot go
with you to-night, for I must find this money. Good-night--and then
to-morrow--I have not forgotten, and you must not forget--but there is no
time now--good-night!"
He suddenly broke away from her side and began walking quickly in the
opposite direction, his head bent down, his arms swinging by his side. She
ran after him and again took his arm, and looked into his face.
"You must not go away like this," she said, so firmly and with so much
authority that he stood still. "You have only half explained the trouble
to me, but I can help you. A debt of honour, you say--what will happen if
you do not pay it?"
"I must die," answered the Count. "I could never respect myself again."
"You have borrowed this money of Fischelowitz and promised to pay it
to-day? Is that it? Tell me."
"No--I never borrowed it. No, no--it was that villain, last winter, who
gave him the Gigerl--"
"And Fischelowitz expects you to pay that!" cried Vjera, indignantly. "It
is impossible."
"When I took the Gigerl away last night I promised to bring the fifty
marks by to-night. I gave my word, my word as a gentleman, Vjera, which I
cannot break--my word, as a gentleman," he repeated with something of his
old dignity.
"It is monstrous that Fischelowitz should have taken such a promise," said
Vjera.
"That does not alter the obligation," answered the Count proudly.
"Besides, I gave it of my own accord. I did not wait for him to ask it,
after his wife accused me of being the means of his losing the money."
"Oh, how could she be so heartless!" Vjera exclaimed.
"What was the use of telling you? I did not mean to. Good-night, Vjera
dear--I must be quick." He tried to leave her, but she held him fast.
"I will get you the money at once," she said desperately and without the
least hesitation. He started, in the utmost astonishment, staring at her
as though he fancied that she had lost her senses.
"You! Why, Vjera, how can you imagine that I would take it from you, or
how do you think it would be possible for you to find it? You are mad, my
dear child, quite mad!"
In spite of everything, the tears broke from her eyes at the words which
meant so much to her and which seemed to mean so little to him. But she
brushed them bravely away.
"You say you love me--you know that I love you. Do you trust me? Do you
believe in me? And if you do, why then believe that I will do what I say.
And as for taking the fifty marks from me--will not your friends be here
to-night, as you say, and will you not be able to give it all back very
soon? Only wait here--or no, go into the shop and talk to Fischelowitz--I
will bring it to you in less than an hour, I promise you that I will--"
"But how? Oh, Vjera--I am in such trouble that I could almost bring myself
to borrow it of you if you could lend it--I despise myself, but it is
growing so late, and it will only be until to-morrow, only for a few hours
perhaps. If you will wait to-night I may bring it to you before bedtime.
But--are you sure, Vjera? Have you really got it? If I should wait
here--and you should not find it--and my word should be broken--"
"For your word I give you mine. You shall have it in an hour." She tried
to throw so much certainty into her tone as might persuade him, and she
succeeded. "Where will you wait for me? In the shop?" she asked.
"No--not there. In the Café here--I am tired--I will sit down and drink a
cup of coffee. I think I have a little money--enough for that." He smiled
faintly as he felt in his pockets. Then his face fell. On the previous
evening, when they had led him away from the eating-house, he had
carelessly given all he had--a mark and two pennies--to pay for his
supper, throwing it to the fat hostess without any reckoning, as he went
out. "Never mind," he said, after the fruitless search. "I will wait
outside."
But Vjera thrust a silver piece into his hand and was gone before he could
protest. And in this way she took upon herself the burden of the Count's
debt of honour.