A RUSSIAN EPISODE.
"Is that the way you answer an appeal for help?" With that gentle
protest still lingering in his ear, he was not inclined to be hard on
this unfortunate wretch who was in the cab with him; and yet at the same
time he was resolved to prevent any repetition of the scene he had just
witnessed. At the last he discovered that the man had picked up in his
wanderings a little German. His own German was not first-rate; it was
fluent, forcible, and accurate enough, so far as hotels and
railway-stations were concerned; elsewhere it had a tendency to halt,
blunder, and double back on itself. But, at all events, he managed to
convey to his companion the distinct intimation that any further
troubling of that young lady would only procure for him broken head.
The dull, stupid, savage-looking face betrayed no sign of intelligence.
He repeated the warning again and again; and at last, at the phrase
"that young lady," the dazed small eyes lit up somewhat, and the man
clasped his hands.
"Ein Engel!" he said, apparently to himself. "Ein Engel--ein Engel! Ach
Gott--wie schon--wie gemuthlich!"
"Yes, yes, yes," Brand said, "that is all very well; but one is not
permitted to annoy angels--to trouble them in the street. Do you
understand that that means punishment--one must be punished--if one
returns to the house of that young lady? Do you understand?"
The man regarded him with the small, deep-set eyes again sunk into
apathy.
"Ihr Diener, Herr," said he, submissively.
"You understand you are not to go back to the house of the young lady?"
"Ihr Diener, Herr."
There was nothing to be got out of him, or into him; so Brand waited
until he should get help of Heinrich Reitzei, Lind's _locum tenens_.
Reitzei was in the chambers--at Lind's table, in fact. He was a man of
about twenty-eight or thirty, slim and dark, with a perfectly pallid
face, a small black mustache carefully waxed, and an affectedly
courteous smile. He wore a _pince-nez_; was fond of slang, to show his
familiarity with English; and aimed at an English manner, too. He seemed
bored. He regarded this man whom Brand introduced to him without
surprise, with indifference.
"Hear what this fellow has to say," Brand said, "will you? and give him
distinctly to understand that if he tries again to see Miss Lind, I will
break his head for him. What idiot could have given him Lind's private
address?"
The man was standing near the door, stolid apparently, but with his
small eyes keenly watching. Reitzei said a word or two to him. Instantly
he went--he almost sprung--forward; and this movement was so unexpected
that the equanimity of the pallid young man received a visible shock,
and he hastily drew out a drawer a few inches. Brand caught sight of the
handle of a revolver.
But the man was only eager to tell his story, and presently Reitzei had
resumed his air of indifference. As he proceeded to translate for
Brand's benefit, in interjectional phrases, what this man with the
trembling hands and the burning eyes was saying, it was strange to mark
the contrast between the two men.
"His name Kirski," the younger man was saying, as he eyed, with a cool
and critical air, the wild look in the other's face. "A carver in wood,
but cannot work now, for his hands tremble, through hunger and
fatigue--through drink, I should say--native of a small village in
Kiev--had his share of the Communal land--but got permission from the
Commune to spend part of the year in Kiev itself--sent back all his
taxes duly, and money too, because--oh, this is it?--daughter of village
Elder--young, beautiful, of course--left an orphan, with three
brothers--and their share of the land too much for them. Ah, this is the
story, then, my friend? Married, too--young, beautiful, good--yes, yes,
we know all that--"
There were tears running down the face of the other man. But these he
shook away; and a wilder light than ever came into his eyes.
"He goes to Kiev as usual, foolish fellow; now I see what all the row is
about. When he returns, three months after, he goes to his house. Empty.
The neighbors will not speak. At last one says something about Pavel
Michaieloff, the great proprietor, whose house and farm are some versts
away--my good fellow, you have got the palsy, or is it drink?--he goes
and seeks out the house of Pavel--yes, yes, the story is not new--Pavel
is at the open window, smoking--he goes up to the window--there is a
woman inside--when she sees him she utters a loud scream, and rushes
for protection to the man Michaieloff--then all the fat is in the fire
naturally--"
The Russian choked and gasped; drops of perspiration stood on his
forehead; he looked wildly around.
"Water?" said Reitzei. "Poor devil, you need some water to cool down
your excitement. You are making as much fuss as if that kind of thing
had never happened in the world before."
But he rose and got him some water, which the man drained eagerly; then
he continued his story with the same fierce and angry vehemence.
"Well, yes, he had something to complain of, certainly," Reitzei said,
translating all that incoherent passion into cool little phrases. "Not a
fair fight. Pavel summons his men from the court-yard--men with
whips--dogs, too--he is lashed and driven along the roads, and the dogs
tear at him! Oh yes, my good friend, you have been badly used; but you
have come a long way to tell your story. I must ask him how the mischief
he got here at all."
But here Reitzei paused and stared. Something the man said--in an eager,
low voice, with his sunken small eyes all afire--startled him out of his
critical air.
"Oh, that is it, is it?" he said, eyeing him. "He will do any thing for
us--he will commit a murder--ten murders--if only we give him money, a
knife, and help to kill the man Michaieloff. Well, he is a lively sort
of person to let loose on society."
"The man is clearly mad," Brand said.
"The man was madder who sent him to us," Reitzei answered. "I should not
like to be in his shoes if Lind hears that this maniac was allowed to
see his daughter."
The wretched creature standing there glanced eagerly from one to the
other, with the eyes of a wild animal, seeking to gather something from
their looks; then he went forward to the table, and stooped down and
spoke to Reitzei still further, in the same low, fierce voice, his whole
frame meanwhile shaking with his excitement. Reitzei said something to
him in reply, and motioned him back. He retired a step or two, and then
kept watching the faces of the two men.
"What are you going to do with him?" Brand said.
Reitzei shrugged his shoulders.
"I know what I should like to do with him if I dared," he said, with a
graceful smile. "There is a friend of mine not a hundred miles away from
that very Kiev who wants a little admonition. Her name is Petrovna, she
is the jail-matron of a female penitentiary; she is just a little too
fierce at times. Murderers, thieves, prostitutes: oh yes, she can be
civil enough to them; but let a political prisoner come near her--one of
her own sex, mind--and she becomes a devil, a tigress, a vampire. Ah,
Madame Petrovna and I may have a little reckoning some day. I have asked
Lind again and again to petition for a decree against her; but no, he
will not move; he is becoming Anglicized, effeminate."
"A decree?" Brand said.
The other smiled, with an affectation of calm superiority.
"You will learn by-and-by. Meanwhile, if I dared, what I should like to
do would be to give our friend here plenty of money, and not one but two
knives, saying to him. 'My good friend, here is one knife for
Michaieloff, if you like; but first of all here is this knife for that
angel in disguise, Madame Petrovna, of the Female Penitentiary in
Novolevsk. Strike sure and hard!'"
For one instant his affectation forsook him, and there was a gleam in
his eyes. This was but a momentary relapse from his professed
indifference.
"Well, Mr. Brand, I suppose I must take over this madman from you. You
may tell Miss Lind she need not be frightened."
"I should not think Miss Lind was in the habit of being frightened,"
said Brand, coldly.
"Ah, no; doubtless not. Well, I shall see that this fellow does not
trouble her again. What fine tidings we had of your work in the North!
You have been a power; you have moved mountains."
"I have moved John Molyneux," said Brand, with a laugh, "and in these
days that is a more difficult business."
"Fine news from Spain, too," said Reitzei, glancing at some letters.
"From Valladolid, Barcelona, Ferrol, Saragossa--all the same story:
coalition, coalition. Salmero will be in London next week."
"But you have not told me what you are going to do with this man yet;
you must stow the combustible piece of goods somewhere. Poor devil, his
sufferings have made a pitiable object of him."
"My dear friend," said Reitzei, "You don't suppose that a Russian
peasant would feel so deeply a beating with whips, or the worrying of
dogs, or even the loss of his wife? Of course, all together, it was
something of a hard grind. He must have been constitutionally insane,
and that woke the whole thing up."
"Then he should be confined. He is a lunatic at large."
"I don't think he would harm anybody," Reitzei said, regarding the man
as if he were a strange animal. "I would not shut up a dog in a lunatic
asylum; I would rather put a bullet through his head. And this
fellow--if we could humbug him a little, and get him to his work
again--I know a man in Wardour Street who would do that for me--and see
what effect the amassing of a little English money might have on him.
Better a miser than a wild beast. And he seems a submissive sort of
creature. Leave him to me, Mr. Brand."
Brand began to think a little better of Reitzei, whom hitherto he had
rather disliked. He handed him five pounds, to get some clothes and
tools for the man, who, when he was told of this generosity, turned to
Brand and said something to him in Russian which set Reitzei laughing.
"What is it he says?"
"He said, 'Little Father, you are worthy to become the husband of the
angel: may the day come soon!' I suppose the angel is Miss Lind; she
must have been very kind to the man."
"She only spoke to him; but her voice can be kind," said Brand, rather
absently, and then he left.
Away went the hansom back to Curzon Street. He said to himself that it
was not for nothing that this unfortunate wretch Kirski had wandered all
the way from the Dnieper to the Thames. He would look after this man. He
would do something for him. Five pounds only? And he had been the means
of securing this interview, if only for three of four minutes; after the
long period of labor and hope and waiting he might have gone without a
word at all but for this over-troubled poor devil.
And now--now he might even see her alone for a couple of minutes in the
hushed little drawing-room; and she might say if she had heard about
what had been done in the North, and about his eagerness to return to
the work. One look of thanks; that was enough. Sometimes, by himself up
there in the solitary inns, the old fit had come over him; and he had
laughed at himself, and wondered at this new fire of occupation and
interest that was blazing through his life, and asked himself, as of
old, to what end--to what end? But when he heard Natalie Lind's voice,
there was a quick good-bye to all questioning. One look at the calm,
earnest eyes, and he drank deep of faith, courage, devotion. And surely
this story of the man Kirski--what he could tell her of it--would be
sufficient to fill up five minutes, eight minutes, ten minute, while
all the time he should be able to dwell on her eyes, whether they were
downcast, or turned to his with their frank, soft glance. He should be
in the perfume of the small drawing-room. He would see the Roman
necklace Mazzini had given her gleam on her bosom as she breathed.
He did not know what Natalie Lind had been about during his absence.
"Anneli, Anneli--hither, child!" she called in German. "Run up to Madame
Potecki, and ask her to come and spend the afternoon with me. She must
come at once, to lunch with me; I will wait."
"Yes, Fraulein. What music, Fraulein?"
"None; never mind any music. But she must come at once."
"Schon, Fraulein," said the little Anneli, about to depart.
Her young mistress called her back, and paused, with a little
hesitation.
"You may tell Elizabeth," said she, with an indifferent air, "that it is
possible--it is quite possible--it is at least possible--I may have two
friends to lunch with me; and she must send at once if she wants
anything more. And you could bring me back some fresh flowers, Anneli?"
"Why not, Fraulein?"
"Go quick, then, Anneli--fly like a roe--_durch Wald und auf der
Haide_!"
And so it came about that when George Brand was ushered into the scented
little drawing-room--so anxious to make the most of the invaluable
minutes--he found himself introduced first of all to Madame Potecki, a
voluble, energetic little Polish gentlewoman, whose husband had been
killed in the Warsaw disturbances of '61, and who now supported herself
in London by teaching music. She was eager to know all about the man
Kirski, and hoped that he was not wholly a maniac, and trusted that Mr.
Brand would see that her dear child--her adopted daughter, she might
say--was not terrified again by the madman.
"My dear madame," said Brand, "you must not imagine that it was from
terror that Miss Lind handed over the man to me--it was from kindness.
That is more natural to her than terror."
"Ah, I know the dear child has the courage of an army," said the little
old lady, tapping her adopted daughter on the shoulder with the fan.
"But she must take care of herself while her papa is away in America."
Natalie rose; and of course Brand rose also, with a sudden qualm of
disappointment, for he took that as the signal of his dismissal; and he
had scarcely spoken a word to her.
"Mr. Brand," said she, with some little trifle of embarrassment, "I know
I must have deprived you of your luncheon. It was so kind of you to go
at once with the poor man. Would it save you time--if you are not going
anywhere--I thought perhaps you might come and have something with
madame and myself. You must be dying of hunger."
He did not refuse the invitation. And behold! when he went down-stairs,
the table was already laid for three; had he been expected, he asked
himself? Those flowers there, too: he knew it was no maid-servant's
fingers that had arranged and distributed them so skilfully.
How he blessed this little Polish lady, and her volubility, and her
extravagant, subtle, honest flattery of her dear adopted daughter! It
gave him liberty to steep himself in the rich consciousness of Natalie's
presence; he could listen in silence for the sound of her voice--he
could covertly watch the beauty of her shapely hands--without being
considered preoccupied or morose. All he had to do was to say, "Yes,
madame," or "Indeed, madame," the while he knew that Natalie Lind was
breathing the same air with him--that at any moment the large, lustrous
dark eyes might look up and meet his. And she spoke little, too; and had
scarcely her usual frank self-confidence: perhaps a chance reference of
Madame Potecki to the fact that her adopted daughter had been brought up
without a mother had somewhat saddened her.
The room was shaded in a measure, for the French silk blinds were down;
but there was a soft golden glow prevailing all the same. For many a day
George Brand remembered that little luncheon-party; the dull, bronze
glow of the room; the flowers; the soft, downcast eyes opposite him; the
bright, pleasant garrulity of the little Polish lady; and always--ah,
the delight of it!--that strange, trembling, sweet consciousness that
Natalie Lind was listening as he listened--that almost he could have
heard the beating of her heart.
And a hundred and a hundred times he swore that, whoever throughout the
laboring and suffering world might regret that day, the man Kirski
should not.