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Updated: June 11, 2025
What kind of love is it that makes you act as you do?" Vjera stood still, for they were close to her door, and there was a street lamp at hand so that she could see his face. She saw that he asked the question earnestly. "It is something that I cannot explain it is something holy," she answered. Perhaps the forlorn little shell-maker had found the definition of true love.
"Then what does matter?" inquired the Cossack over his shoulders, "If Vjera has cut off her hair," he said, turning again to Fischelowitz, "she has had a good reason for it. It is none of your business, nor mine either." So saying he was about to go back to his work again. "Upon my word!" exclaimed the tobacconist. "Upon my word! I do not understand what has got into the fellow."
"Thank you," she answered, watching his face closely. Then the two walked side by side under the lime trees in the deepening evening shadows, to the low archway by which the road leads out of the Hofgarten on the side of the city. For some minutes neither spoke, but Vjera could hear her companion's quickly drawn, irregular breath.
But as the visions which her prayers had called before her faded away into the night, she saw again the dingy walls of the hated building, the gilt spike on the helmet of the policeman and the shining blade that caught the light as he moved on his beat. For one moment Vjera stood quite still.
The barber eyed the thick plait with a businesslike expression. "The colour is not so bad," he remarked, as though suggesting that it might have been very much better. "Surely, it is very beautiful hair!" said Vjera, her heart almost breaking at the sight of the tenderly treasured heirloom. Suddenly the man snuffed the odour, lifted the tress to his nose, and smelt it.
"He tells us all the same thing, he speaks of his letters, but he never shows them to anyone. I am afraid " she sighed and stopped speaking. "I will tell you this much," said her companion. "That man is honest to the backbone, honest as the good daylight on the hills, where there are no houses to darken it and make shadows." "He is an angel of goodness and kindness," said Vjera softly.
The figure of her rose before him, pitiful, thin, weak, with outstretched hands and trusting eyes and he had taken of her all she had. Neither heart, nor body, nor brain could bear more. "Vjera! God! Forgive me!" With the cry of a breaking heart the poor Count fell forward from his seat and lay in a heap, motionless upon the floor.
She loved him, though she knew he was mad, and she let her head fall upon his shoulder, and allowed herself to believe in love for a moment. Suddenly she felt that he was startled by something. "Vjera!" he cried. "Have you cut off your beautiful hair? What have you done, child? How could you do it?" "It was so heavy," she said, looking up with a bright smile. "It made my head ache it is best so."
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."
Tell me." "No I never borrowed it. No, no it was that villain, last winter, who gave him the Gigerl " "And Fischelowitz expects you to pay that!" cried Vjera, indignantly. "It is impossible." "When I took the Gigerl away last night I promised to bring the fifty marks by to-night.
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