Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “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.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE COUNT HAD no precise object in view when he hurriedly left the shop with the parcel containing the broken doll. What he most desired for the moment was to withdraw himself from the storm of Akulina’s abuse, seeing that he had no means of checking the torrent, nor of exacting satisfaction for the insults received. However he might have acted had the aggressor been a man, he was powerless when attacked by a woman, and he was aware that he had followed the only course which had in it anything of dignity and self-respect. To stand and bandy words and epithets of abuse would have been worse than useless, to treat the tobacconist like a gentleman and to hold him responsible for his wife’s language would have been more than absurd. So the Count took the remains of the puppet and went on his way.

  He was not, however, so superior to good and bad treatment as not to feel deeply wounded and thoroughly roused to anger. Perhaps, if he had been already in possession of the fortune and dignity which he expected on the morrow, he might have smiled contemptuously at the virago’s noisy wrath, feeling nothing and caring even less what she felt towards him. But he had too long been poor and wretched to bear with equanimity any reference to his wretchedness or his poverty, and he was too painfully conscious of the weight of outward circumstances in determining men’s judgments of their fellows not to be stung by the words that had been so angrily applied to him. Moreover, and worst of all, there was the fact that Fischelowitz had really lent the money to a poor countryman who had previously made the acquaintance of the Count, and had by that means induced the tobacconist to help him. It was true, indeed, that the poor Count had himself lent the fellow all he had in his pocket, which meant all that he had in the world, and had been half starved in consequence during a whole week. The man was an idle vagabond of the worst type, with a pitiful tale of woe well worded and logically put together, out of which he made a good livelihood. Nature, as though to favour his designs, had given him a face which excited sympathy, and he had the wit to cover his eyes, his own tell-tale feature, with coloured glasses. He had cheated several scores of persons in the Slav colony of Munich, and had then gone in search of other pastures. How he had obtained possession of the Wiener Gigerl was a mystery as yet unsolved. It had certainly seemed odd in the tobacconist’s opinion that a man of such outward appearance should have received such an extremely improbable Christmas present, for such the adventurer declared the doll to be, from a rich aunt in Warsaw, who refused to give him a penny of ready money and had caused him to be turned from her doors by her servants when he had last visited her, on the ground that he had joined the Russian Orthodox Church without her consent. The facetious young villain had indeed declared that she had sent him the puppet as a piece of scathing irony, illustrative of his character as she conceived it. But though such an illustration would have been apt beyond question, yet it seemed improbable that the aunt would have chosen such a means of impressing it upon her nephew’s mind. Fischelowitz, however, asked no questions, and took the Gigerl as payment of the debt. The thing amused him, and it diverted him to construct an imaginary chain of circumstances to explain how the man in the coloured glasses had got possession of it. It was of course wholly inconceivable that even the most accomplished shop-lifter should have carried off an object of such inconvenient proportions from the midst of its fellows and under the very eyes of the vendor. If he had supposed a theft possible, Fischelowitz would never have allowed the doll to remain on his premises a single day. He was too kind-hearted, also, to blame the Count, as his wife did, for having been the promoter of the loan, for he readily admitted that he would have lent as much, had he made the vagabond’s acquaintance under any other circumstances.

  But the Count, since Akulina had expressed herself with so much force and precision, could not look upon the affair in the same light. However Fischelowitz regarded it, Akulina had made it clear that the Count ought to be held responsible for the loss, and it was not in the nature of such a man, no matter how wretched his own estate, to submit to the imputation of being concerned in borrowing money which was never to be repaid. His natural impulse had been to promise repayment instantly, and as he was expecting to be turned into a rich man on the morrow the engagement seemed an easy one to keep. It would be more difficult to explain why he wanted to take away the broken puppet with him. Possibly he felt that in removing it from the shop, he was taking with it even the memory of the transaction of which the blame had been so bitterly thrown on him; or, possibly, he was really attached to the toy for its associations, or, lastly, he may have felt impelled to save it from Akulina’s destroying wrath, so far as it yet could be said to be saved.

  As has been said, he had not dined on that day, and he would very probably have forgotten to eat, even after being reminded of the meal by the tobacconist, had he not passed, on his way homeward, the obscure restaurant in which he and the other men who worked for Fischelowitz were accustomed to get their food and drink. This fifth-rate eating-house rejoiced in the attractive name of the “Green Wreath,” a designation painted in large dusty green Gothic letters upon the grey walls of the dilapidated house in which it was situated. There are not to be found in respectable Munich those dens of filth and drunkenness which belong to greater cities whose vices are in proportion greater also. In Munich the strength of fiery spirits is drowned in oceans of mild beer, a liquid of which the head will stand more than the waistband and which, instead of exciting to crime, predisposes the consumer to peaceful and lengthened sleep. The worst that can be said of the poorer public-houses in Munich, is that they are frequented by the poorer people, and that as the customers bring less money than elsewhere, there is less drinking in proportion, and a greater demand for large quantities of very filling food at very low rates. As a general rule, such places are clean and decently kept, and the sight of a drunken man in the public room would excite very considerable astonishment, besides entailing upon the culprit a summary expulsion into the street and a rather forcible injunction not to repeat the offence.

  The four windows of the establishment which opened upon the narrow street were open, for the weather had become sultry even out of doors, and the guests wanted fresh air. At one of these windows the Count saw the heads of Dumnoff and Schmidt. With the instinct of the poor man, the Count felt in his pocket to see whether he had any money, and was somewhat disturbed to find but a solitary piece of silver, feebly supported on either side by a couple of one-penny pieces. He had forgotten that he had refused to accept his pay for the day’s work, and it required an effort of memory to account for the low state of his funds. But what he had with him was sufficient for his wants, and settling his parcel under his arm he ascended the three or four steps which gave access to the inn, and entered the public room. Besides the Russian and the Cossack, there were three public porters seated at the next table, dressed in their blue blouses, their red cloth caps hanging on the pegs over their heads, all silent and similarly engaged. Each had before him a piece of that national cheese of which the smell may almost be heard, each had lately received a thick, irregularly-shaped hunch of dark bread, and they had one pot of beer and one salt-cellar amongst them. They all had honest German faces, honest blue eyes, horny hands and round shoulders. Another table, in a far corner, was occupied by a poorly-dressed old woman in black, dusty and evidently tired. A covered basket stood on a chair at her elbow, she was eating an unwholesome-looking “knödel” or boiled potato ball, and half a pint of beer stood before her still untouched. As for the Cossack and Dumnoff, they had finished their meal. The former was smoking a cigarette through a mouth-piece made by boring out the well-dried leg-bone of a chicken and was drinking nothing. Dumno
ff had before him a small glass of the common whisky known as “corn-brandy” and was trying to give it a flavour resembling the vodka of his native land by stirring pepper into it with the blade of an old pocket-knife. Both looked up, without betraying any surprise, as the Count entered and sat himself down at the end of their oblong table, facing the open window and with his back to the room. A word of greeting passed on each side and the two relapsed into silence, while the Count ordered a sausage “with horse-radish” of the sour-sweet maiden of five-and-thirty who waited on the guests. The Cossack, always observant of such things, looked at the oddly-shaped package which the Count had brought with him, trying to divine its contents and signally failing in the attempt. Dumnoff, who did not like the Count’s gentlemanlike manners and fine speech, sullenly stirred the fiery mixture he was concocting. The colour on his prominent cheek-bones was a little brighter than before supper, but otherwise it was impossible to say that he was the worse for the half-pint of spirits he had certainly absorbed since leaving his work. The man’s strong peasant nature was proof against far greater excesses than his purse could afford.

  “What is the news?” inquired Johann Schmidt, still eyeing the bundle curiously, and doubtless hoping that the Count would soon inform him of the contents. But the latter saw the look and glanced suspiciously at the questioner.

  “No news, that I know of,” he answered. “Except for me,” he added, after a pause, and looking dreamily out of the window at a street lamp that was burning opposite. “To-morrow, at this time, I shall be off.”

  “And where are you going?” asked the Cossack, good-humouredly. “Are you going for long, if I may ask?”

  “Yes — yes. I shall never come back to Munich.” He had been speaking in German, but noticing that the other guests in the room were silent, and thinking that they might listen, he broke off into Russian. “I shall go home, at last,” he said, his face brightening perceptibly as his visions of wealth again rose before his eyes. “I shall go home and rest myself for a long time in the country, and then, next winter, perhaps, I will go to Petersburg.”

  “Well, well, I wish you a pleasant journey,” said Schmidt. “So there is to be no mistake about the fortune this time?”

  “This time?” repeated the Count, as though not understanding. “Why do you say this time?”

  “Because you have so often expected it before,” returned the Cossack bluntly, but without malice.

  “I do not remember ever saying so,” said the other, evidently searching among his recollections.

  “Every Tuesday,” growled Dumnoff, sipping his peppery liquor. “Every Tuesday since I can remember.”

  “I think you must be mistaken,” said the Count, politely.

  Dumnoff grunted something quite incomprehensible, and which might have been taken for the clearing of his huge throat after the inflaming draught. The Cossack was silent, and his bright eyes looked pityingly at his companion.

  “And you have begun to put together your parcels for the journey, I see,” he observed after a time, when the Count had got his morsel of food and was beginning to eat it. His curiosity gave him no rest.

  “Yes,” answered the Count, mysteriously. “That is something which I shall probably take with me, as a remembrance of Munich.”

  “I should not have thought that you needed anything more than a cigarette to remind you of the place,” remarked Dumnoff.

  The Count smiled faintly, for, considering Dumnoff’s natural dulness, the remark had a savour of wit in it.

  “That is true,” he said. “But there are other things which could remind me even more forcibly of my exile.”

  “Well, what is it? Tell us!” cried Dumnoff, impatiently enough, but somewhat softened by the Count’s appreciation of his humour. At the same time he put out his broad red hand in the direction of the parcel as though he would see for himself.

  “Let it be!” said Schmidt sharply, and Dumnoff withdrew his hand again. He had fallen into the habit of always doing what the Cossack told him to do, obeying mutely, like a well-trained dog, though he obeyed no one else. The descendant of freemen instinctively lorded it over the descendant of the serf, and the latter as instinctively submitted.

  The Count’s temper, however, was singularly changeable on this day, for he did not seem to resent Dumnoff’s meditated attack upon the package, as he would certainly have done under ordinary circumstances.

  “If you are so very curious to know what it is, I will tell you,” he said. “You know the Wiener Gigerl?”

  “Of course,” answered both men together.

  “Well, that is it, in that parcel.”

  “The Gigerl!” exclaimed the Cossack. Dumnoff only opened his small eyes in stupid amazement. Both knew something of the circumstances under which Fischelowitz had come into possession of the doll, and both knew what store the tobacconist set by it.

  “Then you have paid the fifty marks?” asked Schmidt, whose curiosity was roused instead of satisfied.

  “No. I shall pay the money to-morrow. I have promised to do so. As it chances, it will be convenient.” The Count smiled to himself in a meaning way, as though already enjoying the triumph of laying the gold pieces upon the counter under Akulina’s flat nose.

  “And yet Fischelowitz has already given it to you! He must be very sure of you—” With his usual lack of tact, Schmidt had gone further than he meant to do, but the transaction savoured of the marvellous.

  “To be strictly truthful,” said the Count, who had a Quixotic fear of misleading in the smallest degree any one to whom he was speaking, “to be exactly honest, there is a circumstance which makes it less remarkable that Fischelowitz should have given me the doll at once.”

  “Of course, of course!” exclaimed the Cossack, anxious to appear credulous out of kindness. “Fischelowitz knows as well as you do yourself how safe you are to get the money to-morrow.”

  “Naturally,” replied the Count, with great calmness. “But besides that, the Gigerl is broken — badly broken in the middle, and the musical box is spoiled too.”

  “Fischelowitz must have been very angry,” observed Dumnoff.

  “Not at all. It was his wife. Akulina knocked it from the counter into the farthest corner of the shop.”

  “Tell us all about it,” said Schmidt, more interested than ever.

  “Ah, that — that is quite another matter,” answered the Count, reddening perceptibly as he remembered Akulina’s furious abuse.

  “If you do not, I have no doubt that she will,” said Dumnoff, taking another sip. “She always gives the news of you, before you come in the morning, before we have made our first hundred.”

  The Count grew redder still, the angry colour mantling in his lean cheeks. He hesitated a moment, and then made up his mind.

  “If that is likely to happen,” he cried, “I had better tell you the truth myself, instead of giving her an opportunity of distorting it.”

  “Much better,” said the Cossack, eagerly. “One can believe you better than her.”

  “That is true, at all events,” chimed in Dumnoff, who was only brutal and never malicious.

  “Well, it happened in this way. Fischelowitz and I were talking of to-morrow, I think, when she came in from the back shop, having overheard something we had been saying. Of course she immediately took advantage of my presence to exercise her wit upon me, a proceeding to which I have grown accustomed, seeing that she is only a woman. Then Fischelowitz told her to choose her language, and that started her afresh. It was rather a fine specimen of chosen language that she gave us, for she has a good command of our beautiful mother-tongue. She found very strong words, and she said among other things that it was my fault that her husband had got a Wiener Gigerl for fifty marks of good money. And then Fischelowitz, in his easy way and while she was talking, wound the doll up and set it before him on the counter and smiled at it. But she went on, worse than before, and called me everything under the sun. Of course I could do nothing but wait until sh
e had finished, for I could not beat her, and I would not let her think that she could drive me away by mere talk, bad as it was.”

  “What did she call you?” asked Dumnoff, with a grin.

  “She called me a good-for-nothing,” said the Count, reddening with anger again, so that the veins stood out on his throat above his collar. “And she called me, I think, an adventurer.”

  “Is that all?” laughed Dumnoff. “I have been called by worse names than that in my time!”

  “I have not,” answered the Count, with sudden coolness. “However, between me and Fischelowitz and the Gigerl, she grew so angry that she struck the only one of us three against whom she dared lift hand. That member of the company chanced to be the unfortunate doll. And then I promised that to-morrow I would pay the money, and I made Fischelowitz give it to me in a piece of newspaper, and there it is.”

  “What a terrible smash there must have been in the shop!” said Dumnoff. “I would like to have seen the lady’s face.”

  In their Russian speech, the difference between the original social standing of the three men who now worked as equals, was well defined by their way of speaking of Fischelowitz’s wife. To Dumnoff, mujik by origin and by nature, she was “barina,” the town “lady,” to the Cossack she was “chosjaika,” the “mistress,” the wife of the “patron” — to the Count she was Akulina, and when he addressed her he called her Akulina Feodorovna, adding the derivative of her father’s name in accordance with the universal Russian custom.

  “Let us see the doll,” said Schmidt, still curious. The Count, whose eating had been interrupted by the telling of his story, pushed the parcel towards the Cossack with one hand, while using his fork with the other.

  Johann Schmidt carefully unwrapped the newspaper and exposed the unfortunate Gigerl to view. Then with both hands he set it up before him, raising the limp figure from the waist, and trying to put it into position, until it almost recovered something of its old look of insolence, though the eye-glass was broken and the little white hat sadly battered. The three men contemplated it in silence, and the other guests turned curious glances towards it. Dumnoff, as usual, laughed hoarsely.