by Felix Salten
Chapter XVIII
WEEKS PASSED. ONCE MORE the Russians were at Mother Marie’s tea table. She and George had been to the Safonoffs’ once or twice, but as Bettina was never invited, they did not go any more. The old innocent happy friendship had disappeared. Vladimir, who bore the brunt, seemed changed. His face had taken on a serious and sometimes a sad expression, and he had stopped his melodious whistling.
This afternoon at George’s Ludmilla was free with her bitter remarks. Her smile, so charming and appealing, gave way to a tight, thin-lipped sneer. Once she said abruptly, “Back in Russia the servants never sat down at table with the people of the house.”
Without a word Bettina rose and left the room. Tanya followed her instantly, and Renni too slipped out. The others sat there speechless. George’s anger boiled over. Vassili, visibly embarrassed, boomed solemnly, “You ought not to have said that, Millie.”
But Ludmilla went on: “You, George, you are to blame for this. We have you to thank for this . . . this person. If you hadn’t brought the little flirt to your house, she’d never have had the chance to take my son in!”
Vladimir hid his face in his hands. Before Mother Marie or anyone else could utter a word George snapped out, “I don’t mean to argue with you! You’re always right about everything! As far as I’m concerned you can think what you please. But I don’t see why you keep on coming to our house. And I certainly won’t let you insult anyone in it!”
Before he finished Vassili was on his feet. “Let us go, Millie.” His voice was trembling. Ludmilla, pale, scared, tried to smile, to stammer an apology, but Vassili roared out, “Do you hear me! It is my wish that we go!”
He mastered his feelings, bowed low and ceremoniously, and stood aside to let Ludmilla pass out before him. She hesitated, gathered herself together from her worry and embarrassment, turned suddenly, strode hurriedly out as if in flight, and was weeping helplessly when she left the room.
For a moment Kolya and Mitya sat in petrified silence, then they followed their parents.
“You were too hard on her. I feel sorry for the silly little thing,” said Mother Marie. “Did you see the tears running down her cheeks, big bright round tears? She was just like a child, like a little six-year-old girl. And she is a child, too. You shouldn’t be so hard on her.”
“The way she acted was unbearable,” George growled. He was already half-sorry he had gone so far.
“Well, let’s say a spoiled child, but she’s certainly a child,” smiled Mother Marie.
They both looked at Vladimir, who still sat cowering in his seat. Suddenly he sprang up, stood there for a moment, pale as a sheet, and then, painfully and slowly, forced out the words, “I . . . am . . . staying!”
Renni charged in, leaped up on George, on Mother Marie, on Vladimir, swung his tail like a swift pendulum, and repeated his attack as if he wanted to calm down the excitement and put cheerfulness in its place.
Tanya appeared, bringing Bettina with her. “Well . . . ” She hesitated. “Are . . . are they all gone?” Mother Marie told what had happened.
“Oh, that won’t hurt Mama in the least,” Tanya said with great serenity. “If Papa hadn’t been here she’d have asked everyone’s pardon. Mama’s good at heart. Only she hadn’t any bringing up. Papa spoils her, pets her all the time and keeps her believing she can do whatever she pleases.”
George confessed that he felt bad about it. “After all, she was our guest.”
“Well, suppose she was! She broke all the laws of hospitality, ten times over!” Tanya argued. “Don’t be sorry for anything, my friend! Regret is a sign of weakness. If you go around regretting your actions, you’ll take all the vigour and freshness out of them. You’ll just dry up.” Her dark eyes were blazing.
“Well, sometimes the moment gets the better of you, and you forget yourself,” said George.
“You must stand up for what you do even then,” Tanya insisted.
“If you carry that argument far enough, you’ll find excuse for criminals,” said Mother Marie.
“What I’m saying,” Tanya declared, “is true only of good people who are incapable of doing wrong. Criminals . . . there are criminals who are always repenting, the weak, addlepated creatures. They’ve fallen into a life of crime without intending to, and they go around whining. And then there are others who are criminals by instinct, by their own inner nature. They never regret anything! They’re strong! And they should be put where they can do no harm!” She turned to Vladimir, who still sat there in silence, and ran her hand tenderly over his hair. “Poor brother!”
He hurried from the room. Tanya looked after him. “He always runs away. He acts as if he were afraid of himself. And yet he’s got a strong will and, when the time comes, he’ll stand up to anything or anybody!”
“I’m going with Vladimir. We didn’t get our work finished,” said Bettina in a hard tone and, as she left the room, she closed the door with a bang.
Renni had listened closely to the whole conversation, looking each one in the eye as he spoke, and had tried to draw attention to himself by friendly gestures. Finally he had stretched out, acting a bit timid and showing plainly that he understood how tense everyone was.
Now, as George and Tanya started for the fields, he joined them, quite happy.
* * *
Two, three weeks went by. Renni went out to the forest with George every day. He was especially happy when Tanya went along, and if Vladimir and Bettina joined the party, his joy knew no bounds. He would run from one couple to the other, leaping and dancing. He had entirely got over regretting the manœuvres, the feeling that he was out of a job. He was free, he was in vacation mood, he had nothing in the world to do but enjoy life.
Without mentioning it to anyone, George went to call on Ludmilla. He was received very stiffly. “I am astonished . . . . ” Vassily began after a curt bow.
“You . . . you come to our house . . . ?” Ludmilla asked sharply.
George said frankly, “I came to see both of you but you particularly, Madame. Won’t you please forgive me for my rudeness? Forgive me, I beg you most sincerely.”
Ludmilla’s eyes filled at once with big round tears.
“You ought to have come sooner. You ought to have come immediately,” said Vassili stiffly.
Ludmilla interrupted him. “But . . . but . . . dear friend George . . . how nice of you to come!” She turned on her husband. “What do you mean, sooner? Why sooner? If he had come sooner we would still have been angry at him. Now . . . is the time . . . dear, dear George.” In her gush of emotion her words choked her and then fell over one another and she gave him no chance to speak. “I’m the one who should be begging your pardon . . . I . . . it was dreadful of me. I’m a wicked, wicked woman.”
“No,” declared George, “you’re charming. You have a magic way about you! We all miss you so.”
Laughing and weeping at the same time, Ludmilla cried, “Do you hear, darling? Do you hear?”
The solemn “Certainly I hear, Millie!” which Vassili murmured softly was lost in Ludmilla’s torrent of words. “They miss me, Vassili! They miss us! But we miss you too, don’t we, Vassili? And we’ve longed for you, for all of you. Oh, my dear, darling George, it was so lovely when we all used to have tea together at your house! It warmed the soul. When we quarrelled, we felt as if we had been banished, exiled a second time, we poor people who have no country left to us.” Again her eyes filled with those big bright tears.
“Shall we forget it all and bury it forever?” suggested George. “If you can, I’m sure Mother and I can.”
“Buried and forgotten!” Ludmilla cried.
She leaned over to George, threw an arm about his neck and kissed him on both cheeks.
Vassili said very gravely, “I cannot forget . . . . But as for forgiving . . . ” He offered his hand and George took it.
“Holy Virgin of Kazan!” Ludmilla moaned suddenly. “We’ll never get to come and see you again! I insulted Miss Be
ttina . . . I insulted her so terribly.”
“Don’t worry,” George comforted her. “Bettina understands that you’re against her.”
“Did she say so?”
“Not a word. She never says anything,” George admitted. “She’ll be as friendly and kind as ever.”
Ludmilla seemed convinced. “What a good girl! It’s hard to believe! Just a girl of the common people, not pretty, but so good-hearted!”
Surprisingly Vassili said, with slow significance, “She is a noble woman.”
* * *
When George reached home he started right in to give them the story.
“It’s a relief to me on your account,” Mother Marie said to him. “It worried me that you were so rude to the poor lady. It didn’t seem like you.”
“Well, I was glad to find out that George had the nerve to speak up to her. As a general rule he’s far too easy going,” was Tanya’s opinion. She added, “My parents must have been very pleased. They’ve known all along that Mama deserved a calling down, but they never will admit how much they’ve missed coming here.”
“Oh, yes indeed; they expressly said so,” said George.
“Well, what do you know about that!” said Tanya.
Bettina and Vladimir were silent.
Right then Mitya and Kolya came in and were greeted noisily by Renni. It was as though they had been there no longer ago than yesterday, instead of weeks having passed. They played with the dog and teased the kitten without the slightest embarrassment.
Only, as they started to leave, plump Mitya took George’s hand. “I’m so glad all that rot is over.”
Big, lumbering Kolya, who was petting Renni, was more sceptical. “Mama will break out somewhere else. Just give her time. You can depend on it.”
After a few days the old couple came over. They tried to act as if nothing had happened, but their stiffness was very marked. Vassili bowed lower than ever from the hips. It was quite a while before he seemed at ease. Ludmilla smiled her charming smile, though her eyes filled with tears when she threw her arms about Mother Marie.
She was wearing gloves and so could venture to pet Renni. “There you are, you good old dog.” It sounded like the condescension of a queen.
But Renni had no relish for such favours. He looked around in astonishment, wagged his tail a little, very politely, and got away from Ludmilla as quickly as he could.
But there was no graciousness for Bettina. She was greeted with a slight nod only, and after that neither of them looked her way once. Vassili seemed to have forgotten he had called her a noble woman.
Still everything went off smoothly enough. The Safonoffs began coming over for tea almost every day. And as it happened they were there when Vogg came in unexpectedly.
“Why didn’t you come to see me?” he snorted at George. “I sent word to you, didn’t I? Or hasn’t Nickel been here?”
“Why don’t you speak to these guests?” asked George.
Vogg looked at Vassili and Ludmilla contemptuously. “Those are the people who wanted to buy a whole pack of dogs to keep tied up . . . . Oh yes, I know them.”
“We can dispense with this gentleman’s courtesies,” Vassili declared with every show of dignity and began to move towards the door.
Old Vogg stepped up to Mother Marie. “You’re the mother, eh?” He shook her hand. “You have a fine son.”
Just then Renni ran in between his legs and the eager swinging of the dog’s tail almost upset him.
“Yes, you’re friendly with me, aren’t you?” Vogg patted him on the neck, took him by the muzzle and turned his face up to look in his eyes. “You don’t get insulted, do you? You know what I mean, eh? You’re a dog, and that’s why we two get along so well. Go tell your master to come into another room with me or out in the garden, even if it is raining. How about it?”
The cat gave a leap and landed on his shoulder, stuck her head up against his chin and purred loudly. He laughed, reached out for her gently and held her against his breast. “Well, animals are nice to me, anyhow.”
“Oh, come on,” George said. And the two, followed by Renni, went out into the hall. Then Vogg turned Kitty loose and spoke to George. “You wouldn’t get off your perch and come to see me, eh?”
“I didn’t begin the quarrel, Mr. Vogg. I never start fights, but I never make up, either.”
“Why not, you hard-hearted villain?”
“Because . . . I can’t get over a breach of friendship . . . that’s why.”
“I am an old man. You ought to have thought about that. But anyway,” Vogg spoke more eagerly, “what’s the use of talking about what might have been. I’m here now. I was unjust and it’s worried me for a long time, even before Nickel told me . . . But don’t let’s act like men! Let’s learn from the dogs! Let’s not bear grudges.”
He put out his hand and George took it. “Dogs, Mr. Vogg, note and remember everything we do to them. The good as well as the bad.”
“Let that go for me.” Vogg sat down on the floor and put both arms about Renni. The dog freed himself and tore around the hall. Kitty chased after him, graceful and dainty. It ended with all three—Renni, Kitty and Vogg—rolling together on the floor. George looked on in much better humour. Nothing more was said. Only, as he started to leave, Vogg, who had resumed his gruff, curt way of speaking, said, “Give my regards to your mother.”
Chapter XIX
AUTUMN SOON TURNED TO winter, with pouring rains, violent winds, piercing cold. They sat comfortably in the living-room or did what there was to do in the house, packing potatoes and other vegetables away in the storeroom to keep them from freezing. When the boy Rurpert Fifer reported for work Mother Marie welcomed him warmly. His excessive enthusiasm for Renni ought to have been enough in itself to put them on their guard. He told how the dog had found him and saved his life, and adorned the tale with most fantastic details. Since there was no other work to be done George set him to chopping wood, but Rupert was slow about it and soon showed himself a lazy rascal. Nobody in the house could really like him, though all had been more than willing at first. Even Renni seemed to feel something in the fellow that kept him from his usual cheerful confidence; he was polite but reserved.
For the time being, they had little time to think of Rupert, for in George’s house, as all over the country, political affairs had begun to attract an attention which they had never before aroused. This interest grew and grew, and the less they understood the political situation, the more violently they all debated it.
Vassili expressed himself very gravely. “It is to be hoped that you will remain at peace. It does not concern me, of course. Thank God, I had my war experience years ago and lived through it. I can tell you it would be a disaster.”
Alarmed and serious, Ludmilla said, “War is a great disaster. There is no greater.” She sighed deeply and made the sign of the cross.
George said, easily, “I know nothing at all about these things. Possibly for that very reason I don’t see any danger.”
Vladimir responded gloomily, “Yes, that’s exactly why you don’t see the danger.” He was scanning the newspapers day by day.
And the language of the papers became more and more violent. Rumours fluttered through the air like moths, and from them all the only possible conclusion was that harmony and good will were hopelessly shattered.
The papers of the neighbouring country were no less inflamed.
“There’s poison in their speech,” wailed Mother Marie, who got her information from Vladimir.
George had apparently no interest in it all. “Just talk,” he said, and he played with Renni or went out with him for a walk in the forest that now lay sleeping under its blanket of snow.
Renni loved the snow. He swallowed great mouthfuls of it, dived into it, scattering flakes in every direction, wallowed and buried himself so deep that he came out all crusted over with ice and snow and scarcely recognisable. Then he would shake himself wildly and George would have a task to ge
t him brushed off clean.
Christmas was drawing near, but a burden of fear lay on all the people—on the working men, on the middle classes, and even on the rich. Many of the well-to-do deposited their money and valuables in foreign lands and exchanged their securities for foreign paper; and this made the national bonds fall disastrously. The palaces in the capital stood empty, guarded only by a few servants, while the families spent the winter at their castles in the country.
Business at Christmas time was poorer than it had been for years. Many factories closed down, so that the labourers were soon going hungry and began to complain bitterly. The government took a hand. A law was passed which set severe penalties for sending money out of the country, and another law which ordered businesses either to open their doors or be confiscated. The whole world was in a state of feverish excitement.
As the cost of food soared to fantastic heights the government fixed maximum prices. Then many important articles of food disappeared from the market and people took to buying and selling them secretly.
The whole huge, intricate and complicated machinery of living together, which as a rule runs so smoothly and steadily, now began to slow down. It threatened to become clogged in the mass of conflicting interests, and to stop altogether. The lessons of the World War called forth one emergency measure after another. But there was no severe distress yet.
George spoke in bitter terms of the rich who fled the country. Not till now was his interest in public affairs awakened. He was firmly convinced that his own nation was entirely in the right, but he knew very little about the points of difference and still could not believe that war was drawing near.
“You do not understand these people,” Vassili said to him when George stormed against the rich who had emigrated. “You judge them too harshly, my friend.” Vassili’s solemn tone carried a trace of hurt feelings.
“You can’t be too harsh!” cried George. “These people got wealthy here and now in its hour of need they desert the land that gave them their money. At the very first hint of danger! That’s worse than cowardice. It’s the blackest ingratitude, the lowest form of selfishness. It’s treason!”