Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Fifty marks!” exclaimed the Cossack in a tone of amazement. If she had said fifty millions, the shock to his financial sense could not have been more severe. “It is an enormous sum,” he said, slowly, while she fixed her eyes upon him, waiting for his answer. “What is the matter, Vjera? Have you not been able to pay your rent this year, and has old Homolka threatened to turn you out?”

  “Oh no! It is worse than that, far worse than that! If it were only myself—” she hesitated.

  “What is it? Who is it? Perhaps it is not so serious as you think. Tell me all about it.”

  “There is very little time — only an hour. He is going mad — really mad, Herr Schmidt, because he has given his word of honour to pay Herr Fischelowitz that money this evening. I only calmed him, by promising to bring the money at once.”

  “You promised that?” exclaimed Schmidt. “It was a very wild promise—”

  “I will keep it, and you must help me. We have an hour. If we do not succeed he will never be himself again.”

  “But fifty marks!” Schmidt could not recover from his astonishment. “Oh, Vjera!” he exclaimed at last, in the simplicity of his heart, “how you must love him!”

  “I would do more than that — if I could,” she answered. “But come, you will help me, will you not? I have a ten-mark piece and an old thaler put away at home. That makes thirteen, and two I have in my pocket, fifteen and — I am afraid that is all,” she concluded after a slight hesitation.

  “And five are twenty,” said the Cossack, producing the six which he had, and taking one silver piece out of the number to be returned to his pocket. The children must not starve on the morrow.

  “Oh, thank you, Herr Schmidt!” cried poor Vjera in a joyful voice as she eagerly took the proffered coins. “Twenty already! Why, twenty-five will be half, will it not? And I am sure that we can find the rest, then.”

  “There is Dumnoff,” said Schmidt. “He probably has something, too.”

  “But I could not borrow of him — besides, if he knew it was for the Count — and he is so rough — he would not give it to us.”

  “We shall see,” answered the other, who knew his man. “Wait a moment. He is still inside.”

  He re-entered the shop, where Fischelowitz and his wife were conversing under the gaslight.

  “I tell you,” Akulina was saying, “that it is high time you got rid of him. The new workman from Vilna will take his place, and it is positively ridiculous to be made to submit to this madman’s humours, and impertinence. What sort of a man are you, Christian Gregorovitch, to let the fellow carry off your Gigerl, with his airy promise to pay you the money to-day?”

  “The Gigerl was broken,” observed the tobacconist.

  “Oh, it could have been mended; and if it was really stolen, was that our business, I would like to know? Nobody would ever have supposed, seeing it in our window, that it had been stolen. And it could have been mended, as I say, and might have been worth something after all. You never really tried to sell it, as you ought to have done from the very first. And now you have got nothing at all, nothing but that insolent maniac’s promise. If I were you I would take the money out of his wages, I would indeed!”

  “No doubt you would,” said Fischelowitz, with sincere conviction.

  Meanwhile Schmidt had gone into the back shop, where Dumnoff was still doggedly working, making up for the time he had lost by coming late in the morning. He was alone at his little table.

  “How much money have you got?” asked the Cossack, briefly. Dumnoff looked up rather stupidly, dropped the cigarette he was making, and felt in his pocket for his change. He produced five marks, an unusual sum for him to have in his possession, and which would not have found itself in his hands had not his arrest on the previous evening prevented his spending considerably more than he had spent in his favourite corn-brandy.

  “I want it all,” said Schmidt.

  “You are a cool-blooded fellow,” laughed Dumnoff, making as though he would return the coins to his pocket.

  “Look here, Dumnoff,” answered the Cossack, his bright eyes gleaming. “I want that money. You know me, and you had better give it to me without making any trouble.”

  Dumnoff seemed confused by the sharpness of the demand, and hesitated.

  “You seem in a great hurry,” he said, with an awkward laugh, “I suppose you mean to give it back to me?”

  “You shall have it at the rate of a mark a day in the next five work days. You will get your pay this evening and that will be quite enough for you to get drunk with to-night.”

  “That is true,” said Dumnoff, thoughtfully. “Well, take it,” he added, slipping the money into the other’s outstretched palm.

  “Thank you,” said the Cossack. “You are not so bad as you look, Dumnoff. Good-night.” He was gone in a moment.

  Dumnoff stared at the door through which he had disappeared.

  “After all,” he muttered, discontentedly, “he could not have taken it by force. I wonder why I was such a fool as to give it to him!”

  “I tell you,” said Akulina to her husband as Schmidt passed through the outer shop, “that he will end by costing us so much in money lent, and squandered in charity, that the business will go to dust and feathers! I am only a weak woman, Christian Gregorovitch, but I have four children—”

  The Cossack heard no more, for he closed the street door behind him and returned to Vjera’s side. She was standing as he had left her, absorbed in the contemplation of the financial crisis.

  “Five more,” said he, giving her the silver. “That is one half. Now for the other. But are you quite sure, Vjera, that it is as bad as you think? I know that Fischelowitz does not in the least expect the money.”

  “No — I daresay not. But I know this, if I had not met him just now and promised to bring him the fifty marks, he would have been raving mad before morning.” Schmidt saw by her look that she was convinced of the fact.

  “Very well,” he said. “I am not going to turn back now. The poor Count has done me many a good turn in his time, and I will do my best, though I do not exactly see what more I can do, at such short notice.”

  “Have you got anything worth pawning, Herr Schmidt?” asked Vjera, ruthless, as devoted people can be when the object of their devotion is in danger.

  “Well — I have not much that I can spare. There is the bed — but my wife cannot sleep on the floor, though I would myself. And there are a few pots and pans in the kitchen — not worth much, and I do not know what we should do without them. I do not know, I am sure. I cannot take the children’s things, Vjera, even for you.”

  “No,” said Vjera doubtfully. “I suppose not. Of course not!” she exclaimed, immediately afterwards, with an attempt to express conviction.

  “There is one thing — there is the old samovar,” continued the Cossack. “It has a leak in one side, and we make the tea as we can, when we have any. But I remember that I once pawned it, years ago, for five marks.”

  “That would make thirty,” said Vjera promptly.

  “I do not believe they would lend so much on it now, though it is good metal. It is a little battered, besides being leaky.”

  “Let us get it,” said Vjera, beginning to walk briskly on. “I have something, too, though I do not know what it is worth. It is an old skin of a wolf — my father killed it inside the village, just before we came away.”

  “A wolf skin!” exclaimed Schmidt. “That may be worth something, if it is good.”

  “I am afraid it is not very good,” answered Vjera doubtfully. “The hair comes out. I think it must have been a mangy wolf. And there is a bad hole on one side.”

  “It was probably badly cured,” said the Cossack, who understood furs. “But I can mend the hole in five minutes, so that nobody will see it.”

  “We will get it, too. But I am afraid that it will not be nearly enough to make up the twenty-five marks. They could not possibly give us twenty marks for the skin, could they?”
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  “No, indeed, unless you could sell it to some one who does not understand those things. And the samovar will not bring five, as I said. We must find something else.”

  “Let us get the samovar first,” said Vjera decisively. “I will wait downstairs till you get it, and then you will wait for me where I live, and after that we will go together. I may find something else. Indeed, I must, or we shall not have enough.”

  They walked rapidly through the deepening shadows towards Schmidt’s home. Vjera moved, as people do, who are possessed by an idea which must be put into immediate execution, her head high, her eyes full of light, her lips set, her step firm. Her companion was surprised to find that he needed to walk fast in order to keep by her side. He looked at her often, as he had looked all day, with an expression that showed at once much interest, considerable admiration and some pity. If he had not been lately brought to some new opinion concerning the girl he would certainly not have entered into her wild scheme for calming the Count’s excitement without at least arguing the case lengthily, and discussing all the difficulties which presented themselves to his imagination. As it was, he felt himself carried away by a sort of enthusiasm in her cause, which would have led him to make even greater sacrifices than he had it in his power to offer. So strong was this feeling that he felt called upon to make a sort of apology.

  “I am sorry I cannot do more to help you,” he said regretfully. “It is very little I know, but then, you see I am not alone in the world, Vjera. There are others to be thought of. And besides, I have just paid the rent, and there are no savings left.”

  “Dear Herr Schmidt,” answered Vjera gratefully, “you are doing too much already — but I cannot help taking all you give me, though I can thank you for it with all my heart.”

  They did not speak again during the next few minutes, until they reached the door of the house in which the Cossack lived.

  “I shall only need a moment,” he said, as he dived into the dark entrance.

  He lost so little time, that it seemed to Vjera as though the echo of his steps had not died away upon the stairs before she heard his footfall again as he descended. This time, however, there was a rattle and clatter of metal to be heard as well as his quick tread and the loud creaking of his coarse, stiff shoes. He emerged into the street with the body of the samovar under one arm. The movable brass chimney of the machine was sticking out of one of his pockets, and in his left hand he had its little tray, with the rings and other pieces belonging to the whole. Amongst those latter objects, which he grasped tightly in his fingers, there figured also the fragment of a small spoon of which the bowl had been broken from the handle.

  “It is silver,” he said, referring to the latter utensil, as he held up the whole handful before Vjera’s eyes. “But if we can find a jeweller’s shop open, we will sell it. We can get more for it in that way. And now your wolf’s skin, Vjera. And be sure to bring me a needle and some strong thread when you come down. I can mend the hole by the gaslight in the street, for Homolka would not understand it if he saw me going to your room, you know.”

  She helped him to put all the smaller things into his pockets, so that he had only the samovar itself, and its metal tray to carry in his hands, and then they went briskly on towards Vjera’s lodging.

  “Do you think we shall get three marks for the little spoon?” she asked, constantly preoccupied by her calculations.

  “Oh yes,” Schmidt answered cheerfully. “We may get five. It is good silver, and they buy silver by weight.”

  A few moments later she stood still before a narrow shop which was lighted within, though there was no lamp in the windows. It was that of a small watchmaker and jeweller, and a few silver watches and some cheap chains and trinkets were visible behind the glass pane.

  “Perhaps he may buy the spoon,” suggested Vjera, anxious to lose no time.

  Without a word Schmidt entered the shop, while the girl stood outside. In less than five minutes he came out again with something in his hand.

  “Three and a half,” he said, handing her the money.

  “I had hoped it would be worth more,” she answered, putting the coins with the rest.

  “No. He weighed it with silver marks. It weighed just four of them, and he said he must have half a mark to make it worth his while.”

  “Very well,” said Vjera, “it is always something. I have twenty-eight and a half now.”

  When they reached her lodging Schmidt set down the samovar upon the pavement and made himself a cigarette, while he waited for her. She was gone a long time, as it seemed to him, and he was beginning to wonder whether anything had happened, when she suddenly made her appearance, noiseless in her walk, as always. The old wolf’s skin was hung over one shoulder, and she carried besides a limp-looking brown paper parcel, tied with a bit of folded ribband. As he caught sight of her face in the light of the street lamp, Schmidt fancied that she was paler than before, and that her cheek was wet.

  “I am sorry I was so long,” she said. “The little sister cried because I would not stay, and I had to quiet her. Here is the skin. Do you see? I am afraid this is a very big hole — and the hair comes out in handfuls. Look at it.”

  “It was a very old wolf,” remarked the Cossack, holding the skin up under the gaslight.

  “Does that make it worth less?” asked Vjera anxiously.

  “Not of itself; on the contrary. And I can mend the hole, if you have the thread and needle. The worst thing about it all is the way the hairs fall out. I am afraid the moths have been at it, Vjera.” He shook his head gravely. “I am afraid the moths have done a great deal of damage.”

  “Oh, if I had only known — I would have been so careful! And to think that it might have been worth something.”

  “It is worth something as it is, but at the pawnbroker’s they will not lend much on it.” He took the threaded needle, which she had not forgotten, and sitting down upon the edge of the pavement spread the skin upon his knees with the fur downwards. Then he quickly began to draw the hole together, sewing it firmly with the furrier’s cross stitch, and so neatly that the seam looked like a single straight line on the side of the leather, while it was quite invisible in the fur on the other.

  “What is the other thing you have brought?” he inquired without looking up from his work. The light was bad, and he had to bend his eyes close to the sewing.

  “It is something I may be able to sell,” said Vjera in a rather unsteady voice.

  “Silver?” asked Schmidt, cheerfully.

  “Oh no — not silver — something dearer,” she said, almost under her breath. “I am afraid it is very hard for you to see,” she added quickly, attempting to avoid his questions. “Do you not think that I could hold a match for you, to make a little more light? You always have some with you.”

  “Wait a moment — yes — I have almost finished the seam — here is the box. Now, if you can hold the match just there, just over the needle, and keep it from going out, I can finish the end off neatly.”

  Vjera knelt down beside him and held the flickering bit of wood as well as she was able. They made a strange picture, out in the unfrequented street, the dim glare of the gaslight above them, and the redder flame of the match making odd tints and shadows in their faces. Vjera’s shawl had slipped back from her head and her thick tress of red-brown hair had found its way over her shoulder. An artist, strolling supperwards from his studio, came down their side of the way. He stopped and looked at them.

  “Has anything happened?” he asked kindly. “Can I be of any use?”

  Vjera looked up with a frightened glance. The Cossack paid no attention to the stranger.

  “Oh no, thank you — thank you, sir, it is nothing — only a little piece of work to finish.”

  The artist gave one more look and passed on, wishing that he could have had pencil and paper and light at his command for five minutes.

  “There,” said Schmidt triumphantly. “It is done, and very well done. And no
w for the pawn-shop, Vjera!”

  Vjera took the skin over her arm and her companion picked up the samovar with its tray, and they moved on again. Vjera’s face was pale and sad, but she seemed more confident of success than ever, and her step was elastic and hopeful. Johann Schmidt’s curiosity was very great, as has been seen on previous occasions. He did his best to control it, for some time, only trying to guess from the general appearance of the limp parcel what it might contain. But his ingenuity failed to solve the problem. At last he could bear it no longer. They were entering the street where the pawnbroker’s shop was situated when his resolution broke down.

  “Is it a piece of lace?” he asked at a venture. “If it is, you know, and if it is good, it may be worth all the other things together.”

  “No. It is not a piece of lace,” answered the girl. “I will tell you what it is, if we do not get enough without it.”

  “I only thought,” explained the Cossack, “that if we were going to try and pawn it, I had better know—”

  “We cannot pawn it,” said Vjera decisively. “It will have to be sold. Let us go in together.” She spoke the last words as they reached the door of the pawn-shop.

  “I could save you the trouble,” Schmidt suggested, offering to take the wolf’s skin. But Vjera would not give it up. She felt that she must see everything done herself, if only to distract her thoughts from more painful matters.

  The place was half full of people, most of them with anxious faces, and all having some object or other in their hands. The pawn-shops do their best business in the evening. A man and a woman, both advanced in middle age, well fed, parsimoniously washed and possessing profiles of an outline disquieting to Christian prejudices, leaned over the counter, handled the articles offered them, consulted each other in incomprehensible monosyllables, talked volubly to the customers in oily undertones and from time to time counted out small doses of change which they gave to the eager recipients, accompanied by little slips of paper on which there were both printed and written words. The room was warm and redolent of poverty. A broad flame of gas burned, without a shade, over the middle of the counter.