The night train steamed swiftly through the darkness, the cars swaying from side to side of the track, and the couplings clanging and jolting. It was warm inside the compartments and the air made a thick steam on the windows, hiding the snowfields and the station as the train rushed thundering past. In one of the third-class compartments two gypsies sat together with their heads close to the window, peering out.
"Half an hour now, Velasco."
"Twenty-two minutes, Kaya."
"Now, only twelve."
"Are the passports ready, Velasco?"
"They are here, little one. There is Virballen now in the distance; can you see the roofs and the eagle floating? In another moment, another second—!"
The two gypsies sat quiet, straining their eyes through the steam; then the dark one rose suddenly and adjusted the strap of his knapsack, taking his violin in his hand.
"The train is slowing up now, Kaya, come! Follow me close, and look neither to the right nor the left."
The two sprang from the train, and hurrying into the customs-room of the station were soon lost in the crowd. The minutes dragged slowly.
"Do you see that paling, Kaya? The other side of it is Germany—is freedom."
"I know, Velasco—I know!"
"Your heart is beating and throbbing, Kaya; your jacket tosses like a ship in a storm. Fold your arms over its fluttering, little one, that the guards may not see. They are coming now."
"Pray—Velasco!"
"To whom should I pray? The Tsar perhaps—or the Icon over yonder?" The gypsey laughed, holding out the passports. He was swaggering with his hands in his pockets, and when the official spoke to him, he shrugged his shoulders and answered in dialect.
"Bohemian!" he said, "Yes—gypsies! We earn our living on the road, my comrade and I—eh, Bradjaga?" With that, he clapped Kaya on the shoulder, showing his white teeth and laughing: "No baggage, Bárin, no—no, only this—and that!"
He pointed to the knapsack swung from his shoulder and the violin in his hand.
"What does this ragamuffin do?" demanded the official, looking narrowly at Kaya, "He is fair for a gypsey."
The girl started back for a moment, her shoulder brushing the shoulder of Velasco; then she lifted her blue eyes to the official, and her heart seemed to leap and bound like a wild thing caged. She began to stammer, shrinking back against her companion. A bell sounded suddenly in the office behind them and the official started:
"A telegraph despatch!" he said, "Ha—I must go!"
The girl sprang forward and clutched his sleeve: "Don't go!" she said, "You ask what I can do—I can dance! We will show you, my comrade and I. In a moment the doors will be unlocked; wait until the doors are unlocked! We will give you a performance now, a special performance such as the Tsar himself has heard and seen—Play!"
She waved Her hand to Velasco, and in a moment the violin was out of its wrappings and held to his cheek. He was playing a wild, strange rhythm and Kaya was dancing. The crowd made a circle about them, and the official stood in the centre transfixed, open-mouthed.
The violin was like a creature alive, it sobbed and laughed; and when it sobbed, the little figure of the dancer swayed slowly, languidly, like a flower blown to and fro by the breeze; and when it laughed, the rhythm quickened suddenly in a rush like an avalanche falling, and the figure sprang out into the air, turning, twisting, pirouetting; every movement graceful, intense, full of feeling and passion.
The crowd about the gypsies stood spell-bound; the official never stirred. The bell rang again and again. Every time it rang, a new impetus seemed to seize the dancer. Her feet in the heavy boots seemed scarcely to touch the ground; the green of the velveteen was like the colour of a kaleidoscope, and the gold of her curls glittered and sparkled under the cap. The crowd swayed with the rhythm; they grew drunk with it and their bodies quivered as they watched. The minutes passed like a flash.
Suddenly there came a creak in the lock; the key turned and the great doors opened, the doors towards Germany. Beyond was the long line of paling; the flag with the eagle floating; the sentinels with their muskets over their shoulders. A step and then—
The dancer made a little rush forward, gave a spring in the air and then bowed, snatching off the cap.
"Messieurs—Mesdames!"
She held the cap in her two hands, eagerly, pleadingly, and the silver fell into it. Copecks—ten—twenty—hundreds of them, and roubles, round and heavy; they clinked as they fell.
"I thank you!" cried the gypsey, "Good-bye, Messieurs—Mesdames! Au revoir!"
She bowed again, backing towards the door, the cap still held between her hands, the Violinist following.
"Adieu! Au revoir!"
The crowd clapped noisily, cheering until the great, bare station of the customs rang and re-echoed.
"Au revoir! Adieu!"
The gypsies backed together, smiling, bowing; they passed through the door. They reached the paling—the sentinels; the flag with the eagle floated over their heads; then a click, and the gate closed behind them.
They were on German soil. They were free—they were free.
"Kaya!" said Velasco.
The room at the inn was small and very still. The shades were down, and over in the corner, beyond the couch, a single candle was burning.
"Are you awake, Kaya?" said Velasco softly, bending over the couch until his curls brushed hers, and his lips were close to her rosy cheek.
"I have watched so long for your eyes to open, Kaya! My—wife."
The girl moved uneasily on the pillow.
"My wife—Kaya!"
He put his arms about her and she lay still for a moment, scarcely breathing. Then she spoke:
"I am not your wife, Velasco. Take your arms away."
"Your cheek is so soft, Kaya; the centre is like a red rose blushing. Let me rest my cheek against it."
"Take your cheek away—Velasco."
"Your lips are arched like a bow, so red, so sweet! When I press them—I press—them!"
"Velasco—Velasco! Take your lips—away!"
The girl half rose on her pillow, pushing him back; striking at him feebly with her bare hands; "Go—don't touch me! I have been asleep—I am mad! I am not your wife—Velasco! We must part at once—I tell you, we must part!"
Velasco laughed: "Part!" he said, "You and I, Kaya?—Part? Have you forgotten the church, the priest in his surplice, the dark nave and the candles? We knelt side by side. You are my wife and I am your husband. Kaya, we can never part in life or in death."
The girl put her hand to her breast: "It was only a 'Nihilistic marriage,' Velasco, you know what that means! A mere form for the sake of the certificate, the papers—just to show for the passport that we might go together." Her voice came through her throat roughly as if it hurt her.
Velasco laughed again shortly: "What is that to me?" he said, "We were married; you are my wife. Put your hands down, Kaya—let me take you in my arms. You know—throughout the journey, when we were tramping through the snow and the cold, I treated you as a comrade, for your sake. You asked it. You know—Kaya? And now—now we are in Germany; we are gypsies no longer. You are the Countess and I am Velasco—your husband, Kaya, your—husband."
He stretched out his arms to her, and his eyes were like sparks of light under his brows, gleaming. His hands trembled: "Look at me, Kaya, look at me. Why do you torment me?"
The girl thrust her hand slowly into the breast of her jacket and drew out a paper. "You lost it," she said, "in the prison. I found it on the floor. The—the certificate of our marriage. I swore that night—if we reached the frontier I would—Velasco, don't touch me!—I would destroy it!"
She held it away from him and her eyes gazed into his.
"You would never destroy it, Kaya!" He looked at her and then he gave a cry: "Stop—Kaya!"
She had torn the paper across into strips and was flinging the pieces from her; she was laughing. "You, my husband, Velasco? Are you mad? The daughter of General Mezkarpin marry a musician! Our family is one of the oldest in Russia and yours—!" She laughed again wildly, clasping her hands to her throat. "You are mad—Velasco!"
He looked at her steadily. "Tell me the truth," he said, "Do you love me, or do you not love me? Yes, or no."
"No, Velasco. You were kind to me—you saved my life; I am grateful. If it had not been for you—" Then she laughed again, staggering to her feet. "Love you? No—no! A thousand times—no!"
"That is a lie," said Velasco. "You are trembling all over like a leaf. Your cheeks are ashy. The tears are welling up in your eyes like a veil over the blue. You are breathless—you are sobbing."
He flung his arms around her and pressed her head to his breast, kissing the curls. "Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms! The gods only know why you said it, but it isn't the truth! You love me—say you love me! You said it in the sleigh when I was stunned, half conscious! Say it again—Kaya! The certificate is nothing. Does love need a certificate?" He laughed aloud. "Say it, Kaya—let me hear you, my beloved!"
She was silent, clinging to him; she had stopped struggling. Her eyes were closed and he kissed her fiercely on the lips again and again. Presently he was frightened, and a chill of terror and foreboding stole over him.
"Look at me, Kaya—open your eyes! Have I hurt you—was I too rough? Are you angry? I love you so! The whole world is nothing; art is nothing; fame is nothing. I would sell my Stradivarius for the touch of your fingers in mine, Kaya! I would give my soul for a look in your eyes! Ah, open them—dearest!"
His voice shook and was hoarse, and he held her away from him, gazing down at her face and the panting of her breast. "Tell me you love me—Kaya!"
Suddenly she stiffened until her body was straight and unbending as steel, and the strength came back to her slowly. She opened her eyes and the veil was gone; they were flashing and hard. "You use your strength like a coward, Velasco," she said. "Can you force love? I told you the truth."
She pointed to the fragments of paper on the floor with her finger, scornfully: "There lies the bond between us," she said, "See—it is shattered; it lies at our feet. You will go on your way from here alone, to fill your engagements, and I—" She hesitated and stopped again, as one who is afraid of stumbling.
Her arms stiffened, and her hands, and her whole body; and she drew away from him, avoiding his eyes, and looking only at the fragments of paper on the floor.
"Good-bye now—Velasco," she said.
He looked at her, and he was trembling and shaking from head to foot, like one in a chill. His teeth were clenched and his eyes were bloodshot; the pulses beat in his temples.
"My God!" he cried, "If it is true—if you don't love me! If—"
Kaya stretched out her hand to him, catching her breath. "Good-bye, Velasco—"
He turned on her fiercely, and raised his arm as if he would have struck her: "You are cruel!" he said, crying out, "You are not a woman!" He caught her by the shoulders and held her, looking down into her eyes, with his face close to hers.
"Swear it!" he cried, "Swear it if you can—if you dare! Swear you don't love—me."
She looked at him and her lips trembled.
"Swear it!"
She nodded.
A cry burst from his throat, like that of an animal, wounded, at bay. His blood-shot eyes stared at her for a moment, and then he flung her from him with all his strength and turning, dashed from the room.
The door slammed.
The girl reeled backward, putting her hands to her face. Then, as the echo of his footsteps died away on the stairs, she fell on her knees, crouching and sobbing.
"He is gone!" she cried out, the words coming in little moans through her clenched teeth. "He is gone! Velasco is gone!"
Her form shook in a torrent of weeping, and she took her hands from her face and wrung them together. "I love him!" she said, "I love him! If he had stayed! No—no, I am mad! I am cursed—cursed by the Black Cross. There is blood on my hands!"
She held them out before her, and they trembled and shook. "Blood!" she cried, "I see it—red—dripping! It fell from his wound on my hand and nothing will wash it away! Nothing!" Her voice died away to a whisper and she knelt, staring at her hands with eyes wild and dilated:
"Not even his love," she said, "not even his love could wash it away. It would spread—he too would be cursed. He—too!" Then she flung herself on the floor and buried her head against the side of the couch, clinging to it, with her body convulsed:
"Come back, Velasco!" she stammered, "I am weak—come back! Put your arms around me—kiss me again! Don't be angry. Don't look at me like that! Velasco—I won't leave you! I—I love you! Come back!"
She lay still, shuddering.
Outside, in the street, came the clatter of wheels passing and the cries of a street vendor; far off came the whistle of a locomotive. Kaya dragged herself to her feet slowly, stumbling a little. She passed her hands over her eyes once or twice, as if blinded; then feebly, like one who has just recovered from a long illness, she tottered towards the door and opened it.
Her head was bare and her curls covered it in a tangle of gold; her jacket and trousers were old and faded, patched at the elbows, torn at the knees. The tears had dried on her cheeks. She gazed ahead steadily without looking back; and the blue of her eyes was like the blue of the sky at night-fall, darkened and shadowy.
At the bend of the stairway she stumbled, half falling; then she steadied herself, clinging to the balustrade with her hands—and went on.
It was day-light, and the cocks were all crowing when Velasco returned. When he opened the door the candle burned low in its socket, and the sun-rays came filtering in through the windows. The room was deserted. He was muddy and footsore; his face looked haggard and old, and it was lined with deep furrows. His dark eyes were listless and weary, and his cheeks colourless.
"Kaya," he said, "are you here? Kaya!"
He looked on the couch, but it was empty; behind the curtains, but there was nothing; out of the windows, but there was only the street below. His eyes had a dazed look.
"Kaya!" he cried.
On the floor lay a boy's cap, torn, rakish, faded with the sun and the snow of their wanderings—a little, green cap. Velasco stared at it for a moment.
Then suddenly he snatched it to his lips with a sob, and buried his head in his arms.
Ehrestadt lies in a plain.
The walls of the old city have been leveled into broad promenades, shaded with nut-trees, encircling the town as with a girdle of green. Beyond, a new city has sprung up, spreading like a mushroom; but within the girdle the streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses gabled; leaning to one another as if seeking support for their ancient foundations, with only a line of sky in between.
At the corner of the promenade, just where the old city and the new city meet, is a tumble-down mill. It is called the Nonnen-Mühle, and it has been there ever since Ehrestadt first came into existence, as is evident from the bulging of the walls, and the wood of the casements, rotten and worm-eaten. The river winds underneath it, and the great spoked wheel turns slowly, tossing the water into a cloud of yellow foam, flinging the spray afar into the dark, flowing stream, catching it again; playing with it, half sportive, half fierce, like some monster alive.
As the wheel turns, the sound of its teeth grinding is steady and rhythmical, like a theme in the bass; and the river splashes the accompaniment, gurgling and sighing in a minor key, as if in complaint.
It was Johannestag.[1]
The citizens of Ehrestadt were walking on the promenade, dressed in their best; the men strutting, the women hanging on their arms, the children toddling behind. In the square a band was playing; the nut trees were in full leaf, and the air was warm and sweet with the scent of the rose buds. The wheel of the mill had stopped.
Just under the peak of the roof was a small window gabled, with a broad sill, and casements that opened outwards, overlooking the promenade. The sill was scarlet with geraniums, and the window itself was grown partly over and half smothered in a veiling of ivy. Behind the window was a garret, small like a cell; the roof sloping to the eaves.
There was nothing in the garret excepting a pallet-bed in the corner, under the eaves, and in the opposite corner a box on which stood a pitcher and basin; the basin was cracked; the pitcher was without a handle. On the wall hung a few articles of clothing on pegs; and the slope of the roof was grey and misty with cob-webs. Otherwise the garret was bare.
Sitting by the window with her elbows on the sill, framed by the ivy and the geraniums, was a girl. Her head was propped in her hands, and her hair glittered gold in the warm sun-light against the green and the scarlet. She was gazing eagerly over the throngs on the promenade, and her blue eyes were alert as if searching for some one.
She was young and slim, and her gown was shabby, turned back at the throat as if she suffered from the heat; and her hair was cropped, lying in little tendrils of gold on her neck, curling thickly about her ears and her brow. Her cheeks were quite pale, and there was a pinched look about the lips, dark shadows under the eyes. She gazed steadily.
"If I could only see him," she murmured to herself, half aloud, "just once—if I could see him!" Her lip trembled a little and she caught it between her teeth: "It is seventeen weeks—a hundred and nineteen days—since we parted," she said, "At daybreak on Thursday it will be a third of a year—a third of a year!"
She moved her head uneasily on her hands, and hid her eyes for a moment against the leaves of the ivy, as if blinded by the sun-beams; "Sooner or later he was sure to come here," she murmured, "All musicians come here; but when I saw his face on the bill-board to-day—and his name—!" She crouched closer against the sill, and the leaves of the ivy fluttered from the hurried breath that came through her lips, shaking them as with a storm.
"If he were there on the promenade," she said, "and I saw him walking, with his violin, his head thrown back and his eyes dreaming—Ah!" She drew in her breath quickly and a little twist came in her throat, like a screw turned. She half closed her eyes.
"Ah—Velasco! My arms would go out to you in spite of my will; my lips would cry to you! I would clinch my teeth—I would pinion my arms to my side. I would hide here behind the casement and gaze at you between the leaves of the geraniums—and you would never know! You would never—know!"
She put both hands to her bare throat as if to tear something away that was suffocating, compelling; then she laughed: "He is an artist," she said, "a great musician, fêted, adored; he is rich and happy. He will forget. Perhaps he has forgotten already. It would be better if he had forgotten—already." She laughed again strangely, glancing about the garret with its low eaves, and the cob-webs hanging; at the pallet, and the cracked basin, and the pitcher with its handle missing.
The doves came flying about the mill, twittering and chirping as if seeking for food on the sill; clinging to the ivy with their tiny, pink claws, looking at her expectantly out of their bright, roving eyes, pruning their feathers. The girl shook her head:
"I have nothing for you," she said, "No—not a crumb. The last went yesterday. Poor birds! It is terrible to be hungry, to have your head swim, and your limbs tremble, and the world grow blind and dim before your eyes. Is it so with you, dear doves?"
She rose slowly and a little unsteadily, crossing the garret to the pegs where the clothes hung.
"There may be a few Pfennigs left," she said, "without touching that. No—no, there is nothing!"
She felt in the pockets of the cloak, pressing deep into the corners with the tips of her fingers, searching. "No," she repeated helplessly, "there is—nothing; still I can't touch the other—not to-day! I will go out and try again."
She took down the cloak from the peg and wrapped it about her, in spite of the heat, covering her throat. There was a hat also on the peg; she put it on, hiding her yellow curls, and drew the veil over her face.
"If I could only get a hearing!" she said to herself, "There must be someone in Ehrestadt, who would listen to my voice and give me an opening. I will try once more, and then—"
She buttoned the cloak with her fingers trembling, and went out.
"Is the Herr Kapellmeister in?"
"Yes, Madame."
The rosy cheeked maid hesitated a little, and her eyes wandered doubtfully from the veil to the cloak and the shabby skirt.
"Kapellmeister Felix Ritter, I mean."
"He is in, Madame, but he is engaged."
"May I come in and wait?"
The maid hesitated again: "What name shall I say, Madame?"
"My name," said Kaya, "is Mademoiselle de—de Poussin."
The German words came stumbling from her lips. She crossed the threshold and entered a large salon, divided by curtains from a room beyond. There was a grand piano in the corner of the salon, and about the walls were shelves piled high with music; propped against the piano stood a cello.
Kaya looked at the instrument; then she sank down on the divan close to the piano, and put out her fingers, touching it caressingly. From the next room, beyond the curtain, came the sound of cups rattling, and a sweet, rich aroma as of coffee, mingling with the fragrance of cigars freshly lighted.
The girl threw back her veil, scenting it as a doe the breeze when it is thirsty and cannot drink. She smiled a little, still caressing the keys with her fingers. "It is strange to be hungry," she said, "The Countess Mezkarpin was never hungry!" Then suddenly she started and turned white to the lips, swaying forward with her eyes dilated.
From behind the curtain came voices talking together; one was harsh and rather loud, and the other— Kaya's eyes were fixed on the curtain; she rose slowly from the divan and crept forward on tip-toe, a step at a time. The other!—She listened. No, it was the harsh voice talking rapidly, loudly in German, and what he was saying she could not understand; then came the clatter of cups again, and silence, and a fresh whiff of cigar smoke floating, wafted through the curtain.
She crept closer, still listening, her hands clasped together, the cloak flung back from her shoulders.
"The other—there!"
She put out her hand and touched the curtain, pulling it aside slightly, timidly, and pressing her face, her eyes to the opening. She was faint for a moment and could see nothing; there was a mist before her eyes and the smoke filled the room; then gradually, out of the mist, she saw a grey-haired man with his back to the curtain, and he was bending forward with a coffee cup to his lips. Beside him, facing her, leaning far back in his chair, with his cigar poised and his eyes half closed, his dark head pressing restlessly against the cushion was—
"Oh, my God!" she breathed, "My God, it is Velasco!"
For a moment she thought she had screamed; and she covered her eyes waiting, sick, frightened, her heart throbbing. Then she forgot where she was and thought only of him, and a strange little thrill went over her; she shivered slightly, and it seemed to her as if already she was in his arms; and when she heard his voice, it was calling to her, crying her name.
"Yes—yes, it is Kaya!—I am here!" she was saying, "Come to me—Velasco! Velasco!"
Already she was stumbling into his arms; she was clinging to him—and then she awoke. Her brain cleared suddenly and she knew that she had not moved; no sound had come from her lips. She was standing like a statue, dumb, with her hands clasped, gazing; and Velasco lay back in his chair with his eyes half closed, blowing a wreath from his cigar, watching it idly as it floated away, listening as the harsh voice of his host talked on—not five feet away! If she stretched out her hand, if she sighed—or moved the curtain—Ah!
She struggled with herself. She was faint; she was weak with hunger; she was alone and desolate—and he loved her. She fought madly, desperately. It was as if two creatures were within her fighting for life; and they both loved him.
When the one grew stronger, her eyes brightened and her pulses quickened; it was as if she would leap through the curtain, and her heart was sick for the touch of his hand. Then she beat down the longing and stifled it, and the other self came to the front and gripped her scornfully, pointing to her hands with the blood on them, her soul with its curse. Was her life to mingle with his and ruin it, and bring it to shame?
"Never," she breathed, "Never! So long as I live!" And the self of her that loved him the most crushed the other self and smothered it—strangled it.
She gazed at him through the curtain, and it seemed to her that something within her was gasping and dying. And suddenly she turned and ran from the curtain, clasping her cloak to her bosom and running, stumbling, out of the room, the house, the street.
The promenades were gay with people and crowded. The men strutting along in their Sunday clothes, the women hanging on their arms, the children toddling behind. The band was playing on the square. It was warm and the sun was shining; the air was sweet with the scent of the rose buds.
Kaya fled past them all like a wraith. They turned and stared after her, but she was gone. She climbed the stairs of the mill to the roof, and opened the door, and shut it again, and fell on her knees before the box. The pitcher was there without a handle, and the basin cracked. She lifted them away and opened the box.
In it lay a velveteen jacket folded, a scarf, scarlet and spotted. Inside the scarf lay a mass of coins, copecks, ten, twenty—hundreds of them, and roubles round and heavy. She fingered them tenderly, one after the other, then thrust them aside.
"To-morrow—" she said, "I have come to that—to live on a gypsey's wages! I can sing no longer; I can only dance and pass the cap—and give the copecks for bread—for bread! I thought some day when I was old,—when we were both old, I would show them to—Velasco, and he would remember and laugh: 'Ah, that was long ago,' he would say, 'when I was a boy, and you were a boy, and we tramped together through the cold and the snow—and I loved you, and you—loved me! Ah—it was sweet, Kaya! I have lived a long life since then, with plenty of fame, and success, and happiness—and the years have been full; but nothing quite so sweet as that! Nothing—quite so sweet—as that!'"
She was sobbing now and staring into the box: "To-morrow," she said, "I will buy some bread and feed the doves—and soon it will be gone!" She began to count the coins rapidly, dropping them through her fingers into the scarf; and as she counted she smiled through her tears.
"We earned it together—he and I!" she said, "He played and I danced. He would like me to live on it as long as I can, and then—after that—he will not—blame me!"
Her body swayed slightly and she fell forward against the box. The sun shone on the geraniums; and on the sill, the doves pecked at the worm-eaten casement, clinging to the ivy with their tiny claws, gazing about with their bright, roving eyes and cooing.
Below, the water splashed against the wheel; but it was silent.
[1] St. John's day.
The stage of the Opera House was crowded with the chorus. It was ten o'clock in the morning, but the day was rainy and the light that came from the windows at the back of the proscenium was feeble and dim, and the House itself was quite dark. The seats stretched out bare and ghostly, row after row; and beyond a dark cavern seemed yawning, mysterious and empty, the sound of the voices echoing and resounding through spaces of silence.
In the centre of the stage stood the Conductor, mounted on a small platform with his desk before him; and around him were the chorus, huddled and watchful as sheep about a shepherd. He was tapping the desk with his baton and calling out to them, and the voices had ceased.
"Meine Herren—meine Damen!" he cried, "How you sing! It is like the squealing of guinea-pigs—and the tenors are false! Mein Gott! Stick to the notes, gentlemen, and sing in the middle of the tone. There now, once more. Begin on the D."
Kapellmeister Ritter glanced over his chorus with a fierce, compelling motion of his baton. He was like a general, compact and trim of figure with a short, pointed beard, and hair also short that was swiftly turning to grey. The only thing that suggested the musician was the heaviness and swelling of his brows, and the delicacy of his hands and wrists, which were white, like a woman's, of an extraordinary suppleness and full of power; hands that were watched instinctively and obeyed. The eyes of the entire chorus were fixed on them now, gazing as if hypnotized, and hanging on every movement of his beat.
"Na—na!" he cried, "Was that F, I ask you? You bellow like bulls! Again—again, I tell you! On the D and approach the note softly.
"Hist-st!—Pianissimo!"
He stamped his foot in vexation and the baton struck the desk sharply: "Again—the sopranos alone! Hist! Piano—piano I say! Potztausend!"
The chorus glanced at one another sheepishly and a flush crept over the faces of the sopranos. The Kapellmeister was in a bad mood to-day; nothing suited him, and he beat the desk as if he would have liked to strike them all and fling the baton at their heads.
"Sheep!" he said, "Oxen—cows! You have no temperament, no feeling—nothing—nothing! Where are your souls? Haven't you any souls? Don't you hear what I say? Piano! P-i-a-n-o! When I say piano, do I mean forte?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes flashed scornfully over the stage and the singers. "Now ladies, attention if you please! Look at me—keep your eyes on my baton! Now—piano!"
The voices of the sopranos rose softly.
"Crescendo!" They increased.
"Donnerwetter! May the devil take you! Crescendo, I say! Crescendo! Do you need all day to make crescendo?" He shrieked at them; and then, in a tempest of rage, he flung the baton down and leaped from the platform.
"Enough!" he said, "My teeth are on edge; my ears burn! Sit down.—Is Fraulein Neumann here?"
A stout woman in a red blouse stepped timidly forward.
"Oh, you are, are you? Well, Madame, you haven't distinguished yourself so far; perhaps you will do better alone. Have you the score?"
"Yes, Herr Kapellmeister."
"Begin then."
The soprano took a long breath and her cheeks grew red like her blouse. She watched the eyes of the leader, and there was a light in them that she mistrusted, a reddish glimmer that boded evil to any who crossed him.
She began tremulously.
"Stop."
She started again.
"Your voice quavers like a jews'-harp. What's the matter with you?"
"I don't know, Herr Kapellmeister, it was all right when I tried it this morning."
"Well, it's all wrong now."
The soprano bit her lips: "I am doing my best, Herr Kapellmeister," she said, "It is very difficult to take that high A without the orchestra." Her tone was slightly defiant, but she dropped her eyes when he stared at her.
"Humph!" he said, "Very difficult! You expect the orchestra to cover your shake I suppose. Go home and study it, Madame. Siegfried would listen in vain for a bird if you were in the flies. He would never recognize that—pah!" He waved his hand:
"Where is the Fraulein who wanted her voice tried?" he said curtly, "If she is present she may come forward." He took out his watch and glanced at it. "The chorus may wait," he said, "Look at your scores meanwhile, meine Herren, meine Damen—and notice the marks!
"Ah, Madame."
A slim figure with a cloak about her shoulders, bareheaded, approached from the wings; her curls, cut short like a boy's, sparkled and gleamed. The Kapellmeister surveyed her coldly as she drew nearer, and then he turned and seated himself at the piano.
"Your voice," he said shortly, "Hm—what?"
"Soprano, Monsieur."
"We have enough sopranos—too many now! We don't know what to do with them all."
The girl shivered a little under the cloak.
"Oh!" she faltered, "Then you won't hear me?"
"I never said I wouldn't hear you, Madame; I simply warned you. If you were alto now—but for a soprano there is one chance in a thousand, unless—" He struck a chord on the piano.
The chorus sat very still. The trying of a new voice was always a diversion; it was more amusing to watch the grilling of a victim than to be scorched themselves; and the Kapellmeister in that mood—oh Je! They smiled warily at one another behind their scores, and stared at the slight, girlish figure beside the pianoforte.
She was stooping a little as if near-sighted, looking over the shoulder of the Conductor at the music on the piano rack.
"Can you read at sight, Madame?"
"Yes," said Kaya.
"Have you ever seen this before?"
"I studied it—once."
"This?"
"I studied that too."
"So," he said, "Then you either have a voice, or you haven't, one or the other. Where did you study?"
The girl hesitated a moment; then she bent lower and whispered to him: "St. Petersburg, Monsieur, with Helmanoff."
"The great Helmanoff?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"You are not French then, you are Russian? They told me Mademoiselle Pou—Pou—"
"That is not my real name."
"No?"
Kaya quivered a moment: "I am—Russian," she said, "I am an exile. Don't ask, Monsieur—not here! I am—I am afraid."
The Kapellmeister went on improvising arpeggios on the piano as if he had not heard. He seemed to be pondering. "That name—" he said, "Pou—Poussin! Someone called on me the other day of that name. I remember it, because when I came in she was gone. Was it you?"
The girl stood silent.
He turned suddenly and looked at her: "You are young," he said, "and too slim to have a voice. Na—child! You are trembling as if you had a chill, and the House is like an oven. Come—don't be frightened. The chorus are owls; they can stare and screech, but they know nothing. Sit down here by me and sing what you choose. Let your voice out."
"Shall I sing a Russian song, Monsieur?"
"Very well."
The Kapellmeister leaned back in his chair with his arms folded. He gave one fierce glance at the chorus over his shoulder. "Hush!" he cried, "No noise if you please. Attend to your scores, or go out. Now, Fraulein—sing."
Kaya pushed the chair to one side and moved closer to the piano, leaning on it and gazing out into the darkened House, at the rows of seats, ghostly and empty, and the black cave beyond. A Volkslied came to her mind, one she had heard as a child and been rocked to, a peasant song, simple and touching. Her lips parted slightly.
For a moment there was silence; then the tones came like a breath, soft and pianissimo, clear as the trill of a bird in the forest wooing its mate. It rose and fell, swelling out, filling the spaces, echoing through the vault.
"On the mountain-top were two little doves;Their wings were soft, they shimmered and shone.Dear little doves, pray a prayer—a prayerFor the son of Fedotjen, Michäel—Michäel,For he is alone—alone."
With the last word, repeated, half whispered, the voice died away again; and she stood there, still leaning against the piano and clasping her hands, looking at the Kapellmeister with her blue eyes dark and pleading, like two wells. "Will it do?" she said with her voice faltering, "Will you take me, Herr Director—in the chorus?"
The Kapellmeister shrugged his shoulders: "You have no voice for a chorus," he said roughly, "Try this."
"I know," said Kaya, "My voice is not as it was. Helmanoff—" she laughed unsteadily, "He would be so angry if he heard me, and tell me to study, just as you told the Mademoiselle who went out; but I will do better, Monsieur, believe me. I will work so hard, and my voice will come back in time after—" She gazed at him and a mist came over her eyes. "Do take me," she said, "I beg you to take me—I beg you."
The Kapellmeister passed his hand over his face: "Tschut, child!" he said, "What are you talking about? Be quiet now and sing this as I tell you. You have heard it before?"
"Yes, I have heard it."
"And sung it perhaps with Helmanoff?"
"Yes—Monsieur."
He handed her the score, running his fingers over the bird motive of 'Siegfried,' giving her the key. Then he leaned back again and folded his arms.
Kaya gave her head a little backward movement as if to free her throat, and threw off the cloak, standing straight.
Fragment of "Siegfried"Fragment of "Siegfried"
Fragment of "Siegfried"Fragment of "Siegfried"
The tones came out like the sound of a flute, high and pure; they rose in her throat, swelling it out as she sang, pouring through the arch of her lips without effort or strain.
"Bravo!" cried the Director, "Um Himmel's Willen, child, you have a voice like a lark rising in the meadows, and you sing—Bravo! Bravo!"
He put out his hands and took the girl's trembling ones into his own.
"You will take me?" she said, "You see, when I am not so nervous it will go better."
The Kapellmeister laughed and took a card out of his pocket: "Write your name here," he said, "Your real one. I won't tell—and your address."
Kaya drew back suddenly: "I live in the mill," she said, "You know, the Nonnen-Mühle by the promenade? You won't let any one know, will you, Monsieur, because—"
"Are you afraid of spies, child? Tut, the chorus can't hear. I won't tell a soul."
"No one?"
"On my honour—no one. Now, your name?"
She looked away from him a moment; then she took the pencil and wrote on the card in small, running letters: "Marya Pulitsin."
"So that's your real name, is it?"
Her eyes were clear and blue like a child's. "No," she said, "—no." And she glanced back over her shoulder with her finger to her lips.
"Never mind," said the Kapellmeister. "You are white, child, what are you afraid of? There are no spies here! Give me the card. That is a strange place to live in—the Nonnen-Mühle! I didn't know anyone lived there, excepting the old man who takes charge of the mill. Well, in a day or so—perhaps towards the end of the week you will hear from me." He waved to the chorus.
"Stand up, meine Herren, meine Damen!" he said, "Get your scores ready. Good-bye now, Fraulein.—Donnerwetter! What ails you?"
"If you want to try my voice again," said Kaya timidly, "Would you mind, sir, trying it to-day?—This afternoon, or even this evening?"
"Now by all that is holy, why, pray? I have the solos to-night, and this afternoon a rehearsal for 'Siegfried.'" The Kapellmeister frowned: "Do you think I have nothing on earth to do, child, but run after voices?"
"Oh!" cried Kaya, "I didn't mean that! I beg your pardon. It doesn't matter—I do beg your pardon, Herr Director." She flushed suddenly, and started away from him, as if to put the piano between them and flee towards the door.
He looked at her narrowly, and the harsh lines came back to his face. "A pest on these singers!" he muttered under his breath, "They are all alike—they want coddling. She thinks perhaps she is a Patti and is planning for her salary already. Potztausend! Bewahre!" He turned on his heel curtly and mounted the platform, taking up the baton.
"Now," he cried, "The D again—all together! Pia—no!"
Kaya stole across the stage swiftly on tiptoe, threading her way through the scenery that was standing in rows, one behind the other, in readiness for the performance that night, and disappeared into the wings. It was dusty there and deserted. An occasional stage-hand hurried by in the distance bent on some errand, and from the back came the sound of hammering. The chorus was singing forte now, and the sound filled the uttermost corner, drowning the noise of the hammer. Kaya stood still for a moment, clinching her hands: "My God," she said, "I have tried the last and it has failed! The end of the week!" she laughed to herself bitterly. "I know what that means. Helmanoff used to get rid of new pupils that way: 'You will hear,' he would say; but they never heard."
She took a coin out of her dress and looked at it. "The gypsies' wages are gone," she said, "Only this left to pay for my roof and my bed!" She laughed again and glanced about her stealthily as if fearful of being seen, or tracked. Then she began to breathe quickly:
"Without weakness," she said, "without hesitation, or mercy, by mine own hands if needs be. I have done it to another: I will do it again—to myself. Atone, atone—wipe out the stain! A life for a life! That is right." She swayed and caught one of the scenes for support. "That is—just! God, how my throat burns, and my head, it is dizzy—and my eyes have gone blind! Ah, it is passing—passing! Now I can see. I can—walk!"
She clung to the scenery for another second, and then pushed it away and moved to the door, staggering a little like one who is drugged.