Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Ah, mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"]
THE BLACK CROSS
BY
OLIVE M. BRIGGS
_Frontispiece by_
SIGISMOND DE IVANOWSKI
NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
1909
Copyright, 1909, by
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
Published, February, 1909
to
YAPHAH
THE BLACK CROSS
PART I
CHAPTER I
It was night in St. Petersburg. The moon was high in the heavens, and
the domes, crowned with a fresh diadem of snow, glittered with a
dazzling whiteness. In the side streets the shadows were heavy, the
façades of the great palaces casting strange and dark reflections upon
the pavement; but the main thoroughfares were streaked as with silver,
while along the quay all was bright and luminous as at noontide, the
Neva asleep like a frozen Princess under a breast-plate of shimmering
ice.
The wind was cold, the air frosty and gay with tinkling sleigh-bells.
A constant stream of people in sledges and on foot filled the Morskaïa,
hurrying in the one direction. The great Square of the Mariínski was
alive with a moving, jostling throng, surging backwards and forwards
before the steps of the Theatre like waves on a rock; a gay,
well-dressed, chattering multitude, eager to present their tickets, or
buy them as the case might be, and enter the gaping doors into the
brilliantly lighted foyer beyond.
It was ballet night, but for the first time in the memory of the
Theatre no ballet was to be given. Instead of the "Première Danseuse,"
the idol of Russian society, a new star had appeared, suddenly,
miraculously almost, dropped from a Polish Province, and had played
himself into the innermost heart of St. Petersburg.
The four strings of his Stradivarius, so fragile, so delicate and slim,
were as four chains to bind the people to him; four living wires over
which the sound of his fame sped from city to city, from province to
province, until there was no musician in all the Russias who could play
as Velasco, no instrument like his with the gift of tears and of
laughter as well, all the range of human emotions hidden within its
slender, resinous body.
So the people said as they gossiped together on the steps: "The great
Velasco! The wonderful Velasco!" And now he was on his way to
Germany. It was his last concert, his "farewell."
The announcement had been blazoned about on red and yellow handbills
for weeks. One Salle after the other had offered itself, each more
commodious than the last; but they were as nothing to the demands of
the box-office. The list grew longer, the clamourings louder; and at
last the unprecedented happened. At the request of a titled committee
under the signature of the Grand-Duke Stepan himself, the Mariínski,
largest and most beautiful of theatres, had opened its doors to the
young god; and the price of tickets went up in leaps like a barometer
after a storm;--fifteen roubles for a seat, twenty--twenty-five--and
finally no seat at all, not even standing-room.
The crowd melted away gradually; the doors of the foyer closed; the
harsh cries of the speculators died in the distance. Behind the
Theatre the ice on the canal glimmered and sparkled. The moon climbed
higher and the bells of the Nikolski Church rang out clearly,
resonantly above the tree-tops.
Scarcely had the last stroke sounded when a black sleigh, drawn by a
pair of splendid bays, dashed out of a side street and crossed the
Pozeluïef bridge at a gallop. At the same moment a troïka, with three
horses abreast, turned sharply into the Glinki and the two collided
with a crash, the occupants flung out on the snow, the frightened
animals plunging and rearing in a tangled, inextricable heap.
The drivers rushed to the horses' heads.
"A pest on you, son of a goat!" screamed the one, "Have you eyes in the
back of your head that you can't see a yard in front of you?"
"Viper!" retorted the other furiously, "Damnation on you and your bad
driving! Call the police! Arrest the shark of an anarchist!"
Meanwhile the master of the black sleigh, a heavily built, elderly man,
had picked himself out of a drift with the assistance of his lackey and
was brushing the snow from his long fur cloak. A fur cap, pulled down
over his eyes, hid his face, but his gestures were angry, and his voice
was high and rasping.
"Where is the fellow?" he snarled, "Let me see him; let me see his
face. Away, Pierre, I tell you, go to the horses! A mercy indeed if
their legs are not broken. A pretty pass this, that one can't drive
through the streets of the capital, not even incognito!--Call the
police!"
The other gentleman, who seemed little more than a boy, stood by the
overturned troïka wringing his hands:
"Is it hurt, my little one, my treasure, is it scratched? Keep their
hoofs away, Bobo, hold them still a moment while I raise one end."
He knelt in the snow and peered eagerly beneath the sleigh.
"Sacre--ment!" cried the older man, "What is he after? Quick, on him,
Pierre! Don't let him escape."
The lackey moved cautiously forward, and then gave a sudden leap back
as the boyish figure sprang to his feet, clasping a dark, oblong object
in his arms.
"A bomb, a bomb! In the name of all the saints! If he should drop it
they were doomed, they were dead men!"
The eyes of the lackey were bulging with terror and he stood riveted to
the spot. In the meantime the young man had snatched out his watch and
was holding it up into a patch of moonlight.
"Twenty past the hour!" he exclaimed, "and old Galitsin fuming, I'll be
bound! I'll have to make a run for it. Hey, Bobo!"
As he spoke, an iron hand came down on his shoulder and he looked up
amazed into a pair of eyes, small and black and crossed, flashing with
fury.
"Drop it," hissed a voice, "and I'll throttle you as you stand!
Traitor! Assassin! Your driver obeyed orders, did he? You knew?
Vermin, you ran us down! How did you know? Who betrayed me?--Who?"
The youth stood motionless for a moment in astonishment. He was
helpless as a girl in that vicious grasp that was bearing him under
slowly, relentlessly. "For the love of heaven," he cried, "Let go my
arm, you brute, you'll sprain a muscle! Be careful!"
"Drop it, and I swear by all that is holy--"
"You old fool, you curmudgeon, you coward of an old blatherskite!"
cried the boy, "I wouldn't drop it for all the world, not if you went
on your bended knees. Bobo, yell for the police! Don't you touch my
wrist! Look out now! Of all unpleasant things--!
"Bobo, come here. Never mind the horses. I tell you he is ruining my
arm!--Hey! Help! You're an anarchist yourself, you fool! Shout,
Bobo, shout!"
In the struggle the two had passed from the shadow into the moonlight
and they now confronted one another. The master of the black sleigh
was still enveloped in his cloak, only the gleam of his eyes, small and
black and crossed, was visible under the cap, his beaked nose and the
upward twist of his grey mustache.
The youth stood erect and angry; his head was bare, thrown back as a
young lion at bay, his dark hair falling like a mane, clustered in
waves about his broad, overhanging brows; strange brows and strange
eyes underneath. The mouth was sensitive, the chin short and rather
full, the whole aspect as of some one distinguished and out of the
ordinary.
They stared at one another for a moment and then the hand of the older
man dropped to his side. "I beg your pardon," he said, with some show
of apology in his tone, "Surely I must have made a mistake. Where have
I seen you before? You are no anarchist; pray, pardon me."
The young man was feeling his arm ruefully: "Good gracious, sir," he
said, "but you are hasty!--I never felt such a grip. The muscles are
quite sore already, but luckily it is the left arm, otherwise, Bózhe
moi[1], I vow I'd sue you!--If it were the fingers now, or the wrist--"
He took off his fur gloves and examined both hands carefully, one after
the other. A scornful look came over the older man's face:
"There was no excuse, my friend, for the way your troïka rounded that
corner. Such driving is criminal in a public street. It's a mercy we
weren't all killed! Still, you really must pardon me, these anarchist
devils are everywhere nowadays and one has to take precautions. I was
hurrying to the Mariínski."
Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when there came the snapping of
two watch lids almost simultaneously, and both gentlemen gave a cry of
consternation.
"Oh, the deuce!" exclaimed the boy, "so was I, and look at the time if
you please; the House will be in an uproar!"
The older man hurried towards the already righted sleigh: "Most
unfortunate," he fumed, "and to-night of all nights! The entire
concert will be at a standstill. The rug, Pierre, quick the rug! Are
the horses ready? Hurry, you great lumbering son of an ox!"
The boy had already leaped into the troïka and was wrapping the fur
robes about his knees. "We shall put in an appearance about the same
time, sir," he called back carelessly over his shoulder. "You won't
miss anything, not a note, if that will comfort you. Hey, Bobo, go
ahead! The concert can't begin without me."
"Without you," interrupted the other, "eh, what--you? Týsyacha
chertéi[2]! What do you mean?"
The master of the black sleigh stood up suddenly and threw back his
cloak with a haughty gesture. He was in uniform and his breast
glittered with orders. His cap fell back from his face, and his eyes,
small and black and crossed, his beaked nose, his grey upturned
mustache, showed distinctly in the moonlight. The face was known to
every Russian, young and old, rich and poor--the Grand-Duke Stepan.
The youth made a low obeisance; then he tossed the hair away from his
brows and laughed: "True, your highness," he said with mock humility,
"I should have said--'until we both get there,' of course. Your
pardon, sire."
The Duke leaned forward: "Stop--!" he exclaimed, "Your face--certainly
somewhere I have seen it--Wait!"
The driver of the troïka reined in the panting horses three abreast.
They pawed the snow, still prancing a little and trembling, their bits
flecked with foam. The youth saluted with one hand carelessly, while
with the other he grasped the dark, oblong object that was not a bomb.
"Au revoir, your Grace," he cried, "You have seen me before and you
will see me again, to-night, if this arm of mine recovers--" He
laughed:--"I am Velasco."
As he spoke the horses leaped forward and the troïka, darting across
the moonlight of the Square, disappeared into the shadows behind the
Mariínski.
The Duke gazed after it petrified: "Velasco!" he said, "And I all but
twisted his wrist!--Ye gods!
"Go on, Pierre, go on!"
The Theatre was superbly lighted, crowded from the pit to the gallery,
from the orchestra chairs to the Bel-Etage with the cream of St.
Petersburg aristocracy.
It was like a vast garden of colour.
The brilliant uniforms of the officers mingled with the more delicate
hues of ecru and rose, sky-blue and palest heliotrope of the loggias.
Fans waved here and there over the house, fluttering, flashing like
myriads of butterfly wings. The stage was filled with the black and
white of the orchestra and the musicians sat waiting, the conductor
gnawing his long mustache in an agony of doubt and bewilderment.
Gradually a hush stole over the House. The fans waved less regularly;
the uniforms and the more delicate hues whispered together, glancing
first at a box on the first tier, which was still empty, and then at
the stage door and back again.
Where was the Grand-Duke Stepan, and where was the star, the idol, the
young god, who was to charm their hearts with his four strings?--for
whom they had paid fifteen roubles, twenty--twenty-five until there
wasn't a seat left, not even standing room; only the crimson-curtained
Imperial Loggia in the centre, solitary, significant.
The time passed; the minutes dragged slowly.
Suddenly the curtains moved. An usher appeared and placed a chair.
Another moment of silence; then a tall, grey-haired, military figure
stepped to the front of the loggia and bowed to right and to left; his
eyes, small and black and crossed, glancing haughtily over the throng.
"At last!"--The applause was mechanical, in strict accordance with
etiquette, but there was a relieved note in it and the thousands of
straining eyes leaped back to the stage, eager and watchful.
All at once a small door in the wings opened slightly and a slim boyish
figure strode across the boards, a mane of dark hair falling over his
brows.
"Velasco!" A roar went up from the House--"Velasco!
Ah--h--viva--Velas--co!"
Instantly, with a tap of his baton, the conductor motioned for silence,
and then, with the first downward beat, the orchestra began the
introduction to the concerto.
The young Violinist stood languidly, his Stradivarius tucked under his
arm, the bow held in a slim and graceful hand. His dark eyes roamed
over the brilliant spectacle before him, from tier to tier, from top to
bottom. He had seen it all before many times; but never so beautiful,
so vast an audience, such a glory of colour, such closeness of
attention. Raising his violin, with a strange, dreamy swaying of his
young body, Velasco drew the bow over the quivering strings in the
first solo passage of the Vieuxtemps.
The tones rose and fell above the volume of the orchestra. The depth
of them, the sweetness seemed to penetrate to the uttermost corner. A
curious tenseness came over the listening audience. Not a soul
stirred. The Grand-Duke sat motionless with his head in his hands.
The strings vibrated to each individual heart-beat; the bow sighed over
them, and with the last note a murmur and then a roar went up.
Velasco stirred slightly, dropped his bow and bowed, without raising
his eyes. Then, hardly waiting for the applause to subside, the second
movement began, slow and passionate. The notes became fuller and more
sensuous. The hush deepened. The silence grew more intense; a strain
of listening, a fixed eagerness of watching.
Suddenly, in the midst, the Violinist raised his head from his
instrument, drawing the bow with a slow, downward, caressing pressure
over the E string. His eyes, half veiled and dreamy, looked straight
across the House into a loggia next to the Imperial Box, impelled
thereto by some force outside of his own consciousness.
A girl with an exquisite flower-like face was leaning over the crimson
rail, her gaze on his, fixed and intent. The gold of her hair
glistened in the light. Her lips were parted, the bosom of her dress
rising and falling; her small hands clasped.
Velasco gazed steadily for a moment; then he dropped his head again,
and swaying slightly played on.
The bow seemed fairly to rend the strings. He toyed with the
difficulties; his scales, his arpeggios were as a flash, a ripple of
notes tumbling over one another, each one a pearl. His lion's mane
caressed the violin; his cheek pressed it like a living thing, closely,
passionately, and it answered like a creature possessed.
As the strings vibrated to the last dying note, the beauty of it, the
virtuosity, the abandon, drove the House mad with enthusiasm. They
rose to him; they shouted his name eagerly, impetuously.
"Velasco! Viva!--Velasco! Bravo--bravissimo!"
Over the packed Theatre the handkerchiefs waved like a myriad of white
banners. The bravos redoubled. The women tore the flowers from their
girdles to fling on the stage; they lay piled on the white boards about
him, broken and sweet, their perfume filling the air.
The young Violinist bowed, his hand on his heart, smiled and bowed
again. He went out by the little door, and then came back and bowed
and bowed.
The House rose as one man.
"Velasco! Velas--co!" It was deafening.
Suddenly out of the uproar, out of the crowd and the din, from someone,
from somewhere, a bunch of violets fell at his feet. He raised them to
his lips with a smile. "Viva--Velas--co--o!" The clapping redoubled.
About the stems of the violets, twined and intertwined again, was a
twist of paper. His eyes fell for an instant on the blotted words and
then the stage door closed behind him. They were few and almost
illegible.
"_Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya._" The rest was a
blot. He scanned them again more closely and shook the hair from his
eyes.
"Velasco! Velasco--Viva!"
When the young Violinist came forward for the third time, his dark eyes
flashed to the eyes of the girl like steel to a magnet. They seemed to
plead, to wrestle with him.
"_Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya._"
Did her lips move; was it a signal? Her hands seemed to beckon him.
He bowed low to the loggia, like one in a trance, once, twice, their
eyes still together. And then, suddenly, he wrenched himself away
remembering the House, the shouting, cheering, waving House.
"Ah--h Velasco--o!"
Lifting his violin he began to play again slowly, dreamily, hardly
knowing how or why, a weird, chanting Polish improvisation like a love
song, a song without words. His eyes opened and closed again. Always
that gaze, pleading, wrestling, that flower-like face, those clasped
hands beckoning.
Who was she--Kaya? His heart beat and throbbed; he was suffocating.
With a last wild and passionate note Velasco tore the bow from the
strings; it was as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up; he
was gone.
[1] My God.
[2] A thousand devils!