Marie Tarnowska

“How shall I ever be able to thank you?”

“Leave the thanking to me,” said Prilukoff.

For a long time, indeed, he seemed neither to desire nor expect any gratitude. He looked after my interests, my divorce, my parents, my son, my maid, my debts, and my health. But he asked for no thanks; all he required was that I should be docile and content.

It was a period of respite. Soon I forgot that I had ever thought of him as a Scorpion or an octopus. Indeed, he was to my eyes a strange and delightful mixture of knight errant, of guardian saint, of commissionaire and hero.

I did not feel then that every favor, every counsel I asked of him, was but another link in the subtle chain that bound me to him.

Soon I was unable to do anything without asking for his opinion and his assistance. Tioka, Elise and I grew accustomed to see him arrive with his masterful air and brisk greeting every afternoon; then every morning; then every evening as well. We never went out without him; no letter was received or written without its being given to him to read.

If Tioka broke a toy, if Elise was overcharged in an account, if I received an anonymous letter, it was immediately referred to Prilukoff. He put everything into his pocket, saying: “Leave that to me.”

And, true to his word, he mended the toys, he adjusted the accounts, he discovered and punished my anonymous slanderers. He was astute, deliberate and intelligent.

I felt convinced that he was also kind and generous and good.

Who can say that in those days he was not so? The dreadful Prilukoff, assassin and blackmailer, who turned against me, livid with wrath, in the court-room at Venice, was he—could he be?—the same Prilukoff who, in those far-off days, mended little Tioka's playthings? Who was so anxious if he saw me looking pale? Of whom Elise, clasping her work-worn hands, used to say: “When he appears he seems to me like Lohengrin!”

Lohengrin! How bitterly I smile, remembering all that ensued. And yet—I cannot believe it. I cannot understand it. Which of those two beings—the maleficent demon or the chivalrous knight—was the real Prilukoff?

Perhaps, when these sinister years of prison and sorrow are past that cancel in their flight so many things, and shed light upon so many others, some day he may cross my path again. Shall I then not discern in his faded, grief-stricken face the strong and compassionate Lohengrin of long ago?…

Meanwhile I drifted on, submissive to my fate.

Only two things perturbed me. One was the fear lest Tioka should be taken from me—an anguish that was with me day and night. The other was a torturing secret, which I confided to no one. It was—how shall I say it?—my terror of closed doors!

Every time I found myself alone in front of a closed door, I did not dare to open it. I had the fixed, frightful idea that behind the door I should see—Bozevsky! I had the irremovable conviction that he was standing, motionless and expectant, behind every door that confronted me. All the doors of our apartment had to be kept wide open. If it ever happened that I found myself alone in a room of which the door was closed, instead of opening it I rang the bell, I called, I cried for help; and if it chanced that every one was out, or no one heard me, I stood riveted to the spot, rigid with fear, staring at the terrifying mystery of that closed door before me. Perchance, with a great effort of will, holding my breath while the beads of cold perspiration started on my brow, I ventured to put out my hand towards the handle—but in an instant I found myself pushing the door to again, leaning desperately with all my strength against the frail barrier which concealed—oh, I knew it did!—Bozevsky, standing upright and terrible, with the yellow gauze round his neck.

This notion, horrible as it was in the daytime, became an unbearable fear after nightfall. Tioka went upstairs to bed, accompanied by Elise, at about eight o'clock. Twice it happened that, when they were both asleep, a draught caught the open door of the drawing-room in which I was sitting, and shut it. With chattering teeth, and shivers running over me like chilly water, I remained there, motionless, through all the hours of the night, knowing that Bozevsky was there, separated from me only by that slender wooden partition.

In the morning Elise found me lying on the floor in a faint.

One day Elise was summoned to Neuchâtel. Her father was at the point of death, and wished to give his last embrace and blessing to his only daughter. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when the telegram for Elise arrived; at eight o'clock, distracted and weeping, she was in the train.

Tioka and I, who had accompanied her to the station, returned homeward feeling sad and lonely. We felt doubly lonely that day, as Donat Prilukoff had been obliged to leave Moscow on account of a lawsuit, and was not to return until the following evening.

We had, it is true, another serving-woman, a cook; but she left us every evening to go and sleep at her own home.

We entered our dark and silent apartment nervously. I hastily turned on all the lights and then carried Tioka, who was cross and already half asleep, up the inner staircase leading to our bedrooms.

I undressed him and put him to bed, tucking him up warmly and comfortably.

“Oh, dear,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes; “do you think the wolves will come and eat me if I don't say my prayers to-night?”

“No, no, dearest. I will say them for you. Go to sleep.”

I kissed him and turned out the light; then I went downstairs to get a book from the library, intending to return to my room at once. I felt nervous and restless. I was afraid I should not be able to sleep.

How did it happen? Perhaps it was an instant's forgetfulness that caused me to draw the door of the library after me. It closed with a heavy thud. The long, dark-red curtain turned on its rod and fell in front of the doorway.

I was imprisoned!

XXII

I should never dare to leave that room.

Suddenly I thought that Tioka might call me. But between him and me, standing outside on the threshold of that draped door, was there not the man whom I had seen die in Yalta? Horrifying memory! For a long time I did not venture to stir. I turned my head and looked behind me, then fixed my eyes afresh on the red curtain. Suddenly I thought I heard a cry.

Yes; it was Tioka calling me, Tioka all alone upstairs, who was frightened too, frightened even as I was. With shivers swathing me from head to foot as with an icy sheet, I listened to those cries which every moment grew shriller and wilder. Then, in answer to him, I screamed too.

Oh, those shrieks ringing through the empty house—shrieks which only that silent ghost behind the door could hear!

Suddenly another thrill ran through me; the electric bell had sounded. Some one was ringing at our door; some one was coming to save us. Tioka still screamed, and the bell continued to ring. I could also hear blows on the door and then a voice—Prilukoff's voice—calling: “It is I. Open the door!”

With a sob of mingled terror and joy I thrust back the curtain and flung open the dreaded door. Stumbling blindly through the passage I reached the hall door and drew back the latch. Prilukoff stood on the threshold; he was pale as death.

“What has happened?” he cried. “What is the matter?” And he gripped my arm.

I was sobbing with joy and relief. “Tioka, Tioka!” I called out. “Don't cry any more. Donat has come! We are here, we are near you!”

Tioka's cries ceased at once.

But Prilukoff still held me fast. “What has happened!” he asked, clenching his teeth.

“I was afraid, I was afraid—” I gasped.

“Of whom?”

A fresh outburst of tears shook me. “Of the dead,” I sobbed.

“Leave the dead to me,” said Prilukoff.

He entered and shut the door.

········

Thus, unconscious and unwilling, I descended yet another step down the ladder of infamy.

Shrinking and reluctant I trailed my white garments into defilement, sinking with every step deeper into the mire which was soon to engulf me; the mire which was to reach my proud heart, my pearl-encircled throat, my exalted brow on which nobility had set its seal in vain.

It was about that time, I remember, that Delphinus, a renowned fortune-teller, came to Moscow. One morning, having nothing else to do, I went with the smiling, skeptical Elise to consult him in his luxurious apartments.

He took both my hands and gazed for a long time at a crystal ball which was before him. Then he said: “Woman, your life is a tragedy.”

I smiled, incredulous yet disturbed. “Pray say rather a comedy, if you can.”

He shook his head. “A tragedy,” he repeated gloomily. Then he uttered several commonplaces which might apply to any other woman as well as to me. Finally, with knitted brows, he looked still more closely into the crystal. “Two men,” he said, speaking slowly, “have yet to enter into your life. One will bring salvation, the other ruin. Choose the one, and you will attain happiness; choose the other and you will perish.”

He paused. “You will choose the other,” he said, and released my hand.

I got up, smiling. “Oh, no, indeed! Now that I have been forewarned—”

“You will choose the other,” he repeated oracularly. “It is your destiny.”

Although I am not really superstitious, this curt, obscure prediction impressed me strangely.

“I shall beware of whom I meet,” I said to myself; and indeed, every time a man spoke to me, even casually, I wondered: could this be the One?—or the Other?

But days and months passed, and I made no new acquaintances.

Prilukoff kept me jealously secluded, and little Tioka absorbed my every hour. Apart from these two I saw no one at all.

It was by mere chance that one day I met a former acquaintance.

I had taken Tioka for a walk in the park when we saw a gentleman and a child sitting on a bench in the shade. They were both dressed in deep mourning, and they looked sad and disconsolate. The little boy was leaning his fair head on his father's arm, watching him as, with an air of melancholy abstraction, he traced hieroglyphics in the gravel with his stick. On hearing us approach the man in mourning raised his head and looked at us.

I recognized him at once. It was Count Paul Kamarowsky, the husband of one of my dearest friends, who lived at Dresden, and whom I had not seen for nearly two years.

He recognized me, too, and started to his feet with eager face, while the little boy looked at us diffidently, still holding to his father's sleeve.

“Countess Tarnowska!” he exclaimed, holding out both his hands.

I laid my hand in his; as he clasped it between his black-gloved fingers a slight shiver ran through me. I turned to the pale little child beside him who was still glancing up at me timidly. “Is this Grania?”

“Yes. It is Grania,” said Count Kamarowsky. Then he perceived my questioning glance at his mourning. “Poor Emilia—” he began, but his voice broke.

“Poor Emilia?” Was it possible that my little school friend of long ago, the fair-haired, laughter-loving Lily should now be “poor Emilia,” to be spoken of in solemn, mournful tones? I could hardly believe it. I seemed to see her still, bending over her 'cello with her fair curls tumbling over her face as she played her favorite Popper tarantelle.... I could see her laughing with mischievous eyes agleam behind her flaxen locks, like dark stars seen through a golden cloud. And here, clad in mourning for her, her husband and child stood before me.

Great tenderness and pity filled my heart.

Tioka had gone close to Grania, and the two children were looking at each other with that expression of simple gravity which is so far removed from the conventional smile with which grown-up people greet each other for the first time. Their gaze was serious, thoughtful and interrogative.

“Do you like pelicans?” Tioka inquired suddenly.

“No,” said Grania.

“Neither do I,” said Tioka; and there was a long silence.

“Do you like ducks?” asked Tioka.

“Yes,” replied Grania.

“So do I,” said Tioka; and their friendship was sealed.

Count Kamarowsky and I were less prompt in discovering a community of tastes such as that which so quickly linked our two children together. This grave silent man in his widower's garb was almost a stranger to me. As we parted he asked permission to call. But on the following day a telegram from my father summoned me to Otrada. My mother was ill and desired my presence.

XXIII

It was a hurried departure and an anxious journey. We arrived late in the evening at my father's house. He came to meet us at the gate, tall and solemn, his white hair stirred by the wind. He kissed me without speaking and laid his hand on Tioka's head.

“Mother—?” I scarcely dared to inquire.

“Better. She is better. She has improved greatly since she knew you were coming.”

Tioka had hurriedly kissed his grandfather's hand, and now was hastening up the great staircase to see his grandmother, to whom he was passionately attached. Soon his rippling laughter and his nimble footsteps could be heard all over the house, and my mother said that the happiness of it had well-nigh cured her.

It was scarcely daybreak next morning when Tioka came to call me to go down with him into the garden.

The great garden at Otrada—the garden of my girlhood—glowed in all its summer splendor, and Tioka ran before me with cries of joy at everything he saw.

“Look at the water! Look at the little bridge! Did you play here when you were little? Were you ever really little?” He looked at me doubtfully. “I mean really quite little—like Tania.”

The mention of his sister's name was like a blow to my heart. But Tioka was already flying across the lawn.

“Oh,” he cried. “There's the swing! I had forgotten there was a swing! Hurrah!”

“Hush, hush, dearest,” I warned; “don't disturb grandmama who is ill.”

He swung backwards and forwards, careless and handsome, shaking his blond hair in the wind.

“Grandmama cannot hear me; she is fast asleep still. And besides she is not ill any more now that we are here; otherwise grandpapa would not have gone to Kieff to-day.” Tioka jumped down from the swing and raised his face to me with adorable seriousness. “Tell me, mother, when one is ill with nervousness doesn't that mean that you want something you haven't got? Then if you get it you are well again, aren't you? Grandmama wanted us. We came. And now she is cured.” After a pause he went on: “I think I am ill with nervousness too. I am nervous for a bowl of goldfish; and for a hunting dog like that one,” he added, indicating a large setter lying stretched in the sun with his muzzle on his paws.

“Why, that is Bear!” I cried, “our old Bear.” I bent down to caress him. “Dear Bear, good Bear! Don't you recognize me?”

Bear raised his languid, blood-shot eyes, but did not stir.

“How sad he looks,” I said, touching his muzzle to see whether his nose was hot. “Perhaps he is ill.”

“Perhaps he is nervous, too,” said Tioka. “Very likely he is nervous because he wants a bone.” And the child broke into a peal of shrill, merry laughter.

In an instant the great dog had turned and leaped upon him. Snarling and growling he tore at his clothes, covering his shoulders and breast with blood-stained foam.

Tioka fell shrieking to the ground. I flung myself upon the frenzied animal, seizing him by the collar, by the ears, and striving to drag him back; but with hoarse growls and snappish barks the dog kept biting and tearing the child's garments as he lay prostrate and inert on the gravel. With one hand I clutched the neck of the dog, while with the other I picked up a stone and beat him on the head with it until the blood ran.

With a roar like that of a tiger, the animal turned and sprang upon me.

I felt the sting of his fang as it bit into my arm, and I struck his nose with the stone which was already covered with blood. With a cry of pain that had almost a human sound, the dog released his hold, turned and went off.

I saw him trotting away along the path, surly and dreadful, with his tail hanging down and his wounded head showing red in the sunshine.

I picked up the moaning, sobbing Tioka and ran with him to the house.

“Don't cry! don't cry, my darling,” I implored him, myself in tears. “Don't let poor grandmama hear you! It will kill her.” And Tioka tried his best to cry more softly. We crossed the courtyard to the servants' entrance, and I ran into the kitchen where the servants came thronging round us in alarm.

“The dog—,” I panted, “the dog has bitten us—do you think it will give us hydrophobia?” With a groan I dropped little Tioka into a chair; he was a pitiable sight in his torn and bloodstained garments.

The women and the two moujiks wrung their hands. “Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! What shall we do? With the master at Kieff and the Countess ill in bed!”

The cook had filled a basin with boiling water and was laving Tioka's wounds, while he screamed with the redoubled pain.

I knew it was necessary to do something instantly. But what? I remembered having read in the life of the three Brontë sisters that one of those heroic girls had been bitten by a mad dog, and that she herself, without disturbing her sister, who was ill with consumption, had heated an iron red-hot and had cauterized her own wounds.

“Put an iron in the fire!” I said, pointing with trembling hand to the poker.

The dismayed women did so, and I bared my arm and little Tioka's lacerated shoulder.

But when I had the terrible instrument with its glowing point in my hand, my courage failed. Tioka was shrieking with terror like a poor little maddened creature, and the women were on their knees, weeping and praying.

Alas, I am not a heroine; I threw away the red-hot iron; we bound up the wounds—which, after they had been washed, looked insignificant and harmless enough—and determined to go to Kieff at once and consult a doctor. We went upstairs on tip-toe to my mother's room. She was still sleeping quietly, with her small, pinched face sunk in the pillow.

We did not venture to wake her and tell her our terrifying story. We left orders with the servants that they were to say my father had summoned us to meet him in Kieff; and we started.

All the way I watched Tioka with the deepest anxiety. I also probed my own feelings intently, wondering whether I felt any desire to bark. I cannot say that I did. Also, during the entire journey, I kept on showing Tioka glasses of water, but he did not seem to feel any the worse for them; nor did I. This comforted us a little.

As soon as we reached Kieff I telegraphed to Prilukoff:

“Both of us bitten by mad dog. What shall we do?”

He replied: “All right. Leave it to me.”

And, indeed, he arrived immediately and took us to Doctor Fritkof, who gave us injections of antirabic serum for three weeks. It made us feel very ill. Every minute I asked Tioka: “Do you feel inclined to bite any one?”

He invariably replied in the affirmative, which made me very miserable.

XXIV

Although Tioka and I both recovered, this alarming incident had its consequences on my life. It caused me to leave my old home, and from the moment of that departure I never saw my dear mother again.

With the passing of her mild and tender presence all that still was pure and holy vanished out of my life.

I was already on the brink of perdition. Freed from the restraint of that gentle hand, whose light touch even from afar had still controlled my heart, I plunged forward to destruction.

The inheritance was divided, and my share was dissipated I know not how. I returned to Moscow, and found myself ever more and more in need of money.

I lived luxuriously, I dressed gorgeously, and traveled from one place to another—yet I had nothing of my own except an income of four thousand rubles a year, which were scarcely paid to me before they were swallowed up in the gulf of my debts. I asked Prilukoff for money, and he gave it to me.

But there came a day when, on my asking him for five thousand rubles, he turned upon me abruptly.

“I have not got them,” he said. “At least,” he added, “not unless I steal them.”

“How dreadful,” I exclaimed in terror. “How can you say such a thing?” Then I laughed, feeling sure that he had spoken in jest.

“Get them from Kamarowsky,” said Prilukoff, curtly.

I started with indignation. From Kamarowsky! Never, never, as long as I lived. I had seen him frequently during the last few days; he and his charming little son, Grania, still in their deep mourning and with pale, sad faces, used to come and see me, and talk to me with many tears about their dear one who was gone. It would have been horrible, it would have been indecorous, to ask Kamarowsky for money.

“I did not say you were to ask him for it,” retorted Prilukoff.

“What then?”

“Telephone and invite him to dine with you to-morrow.”

“Well? And then?”

“Then we shall see.”

As he insisted I complied reluctantly.

Kamarowsky accepted the invitation with touching gratitude, and a large basket of roses preceded his arrival.

Prilukoff, who was still hanging about in my boudoir, but declared that he would not stay to dinner, sniffed the roses with a cynical smile:

“Flowers! Flowers! Nothing but flowers! Nous allons changer tout cela.”

The door bell rang, announcing the arrival of my visitor.

“What am I to do with him now he is here?” I asked Prilukoff uneasily. “What shall I say?”

“Do nothing and say nothing. And mind you don't open any letter in his presence.”

“Any letter?” I asked, in bewilderment. “What letter?”

“I tell you not to open any. That is enough.” With this obscure injunction Prilukoff urged me towards the drawing-room, and I went in to receive my guest.

Count Kamarowsky, while inspiring me with the deepest pity, frequently irritated and annoyed me. His grief for his lost Emilia was doubtless deep and sincere; but sometimes when I tried to console him I seemed to read in his tear-filled eyes an emotion that was not all sorrow, and in the clasp of his hand I perceived a fervor that spoke of something more than gratitude. I felt hurt for the sake of my poor friend, Lily, so lately laid to her rest; and I shrank from him with feelings akin to anger and aversion.

Yet, when I saw him moving away, pale in his deep mourning, leading his sad little child by the hand, my heart was touched and I would call them back to me and try to comfort them both. The child clung to me with passionate affection, while his father seemed loth ever to leave my side.

Conversation between us always soared in the highest regions of ethereal and spiritual things; our talk was all on abstract subjects, dwelling especially on the immortality of the soul, the abode of the departed, the probabilities of reunion in the world beyond. The commonplace everyday prose of life was so far removed from our intercourse that I felt shy of having asked him to dinner. To eat in the presence of so much sorrow seemed indecorous and out of keeping. Nevertheless, as I had invited him to dine I could not but seat myself opposite him at the flower-decked, fruit-laden table.

A man-servant, lent to me for the occasion by Prilukoff, handed the zakusta and the vodka; and soon in the mellow atmosphere of the little dining-room, under the gentle luster of the pink-shaded lamps, a rare smile blossomed timidly now and then out of the gloom of our melancholy conversation.

We had scarcely finished taking our coffee when, to my astonishment, Prilukoff was announced. He entered with rapid step, holding a large sealed envelope in his hand. For a moment he seemed disconcerted at finding that I was not alone, and looked as if he would hide the letter behind his back. Then, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as if acquiescing in the unavoidable presence of a stranger, he handed me the envelope with a deep bow.

“What is it?” I asked in surprise.

Prilukoff glanced somewhat uneasily at my guest, then he bent forward and said in a low voice—yet not so low that the other could not hear what he said:

“This morning, Countess, you did me the honor of confiding to me the fact that you needed ten thousand rubles. I shall be most grateful and honored if you will accept that sum from me.” So saying, he placed the envelope in my hand. Then with a brief salutation to Count Kamarowsky and another profound bow to me, he pleaded haste and withdrew.