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Updated: June 11, 2025
Of course well, I can understand that having known me poor so long, it must seem strange to you to think of me as very rich. But I shall not be another man, for that. I shall always be the same for you, Vjera, always the same." "Yes, always the same," sighed the girl under her breath. "Yes, and so, if you love me to-day, you will love me just as well to-morrow to-morrow, the great day for me.
You must forgive me, for the news I have received is so very important and makes such a sudden difference in my prospects. But you have not given me the answer I want to my question. Will you be my wife, Vjera, and come with me out of this wretched existence to share my happy life and to make it happier? Will you?"
And besides," she added, suddenly looking up again, "you will not love me less, will you? They said it would grow again you will not love me less?" "Love you less? Ah, Vjera, that promise I may make at least never to the end of ends!" "And yet," she answered, "if it should all be true if it only should you could not oh, I should not be worthy of you you could never marry me."
He had grown well accustomed to his poor existence, and in the surroundings in which he found himself, Vjera was the one being in whom, besides sympathy for his misfortune, he discovered a sensibility rarer than common, and the unconscious development of a natural refinement.
It may have been a long time ago, but there was a time once, when he had some reason to expect the money and the titles he talks of every Tuesday evening." "Do you really think that?" asked Vjera, eagerly. Her own understanding had never gone so far in its deduction. "I am sure of it.
The tadpole began to count on his fingers, whispering audibly. "Yes," answered the barber. "Fifteen and thirty-five are fifty." The tadpole desisted, having already got into mathematical difficulties in counting from one hand over to the other. "Then cut it off quickly, please!" said poor Vjera, settling herself in the chair again, and giving her head to the shears.
"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.
"Is it fifteen marks that you want?" asked the man. "Fifteen yes I must have fifteen," repeated Vjera in dull tones. "I will give it to you for your own hair," said the barber with a short laugh. "For my own?" cried Vjera, suddenly turning round. It had never occurred to her that her own tress could be worth anything. "For my own?" she repeated as though not believing her ears.
"Do you mean to say that you love the Count?" inquired Schmidt, surprised beyond measure by the girl's words and rendered thereby even more tactless than usual. But Vjera said nothing, having been already led into saying more than she had wished to say. She pulled the bell again. "I had never thought of that," remarked the Cossack in a musing tone. "But he is mad, Vjera, the poor Count is mad.
"I will wait outside." But Vjera thrust a silver piece into his hand and was gone before he could protest. And in this way she took upon herself the burden of the Count's debt of honour. Vjera turned her head when she had reached the corner of the street, and saw that the Count had disappeared.
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