It was snowing steadily. The drops came so thick and so fast that the
city was shrouded as in a great white veil, falling from the sky to the
earth. Drifts were piled in the streets; they were frozen and padded
as with a carpet, and the sound of sleigh-bells rang muffled in the
distance. It was night and dark, with a bitter wind that came
shrieking about the corners, blowing the snow, as it fell, into a riot
of feathery flakes; sudden gusts that raided the drifts, driving the
white maze hither and thither, flinging it up and away in a very fury
of madness. The cold was intense.
Before the door of a house on the little Morskaïa stood a karéta. It
was large and covered. Behind and on top several boxes were strapped,
protected from the snow by wrappings of oil-cloth, and on the driver's
seat was a valise.
The horses pawed the snow impatiently, tossing their heads and snorting
whenever the icy blast struck them. The wind was sharp like a whip.
Occasionally the karéta made a sudden lurch forward; then, with
guttural oaths and exclamations, the animals were reined back on their
haunches, slipping and sliding on the ice, plunging and foaming. The
foam turned to ice as it fell, flecking their bits. The breath from
their nostrils floated out like a vapour, slender and hoary.
The driver, muffled in furs, swung his arms against his breast, biting
his fingers, stamping his feet to keep them from freezing. The karéta,
the driver and the horses were covered with snow, lashed by it, blinded
with it. They waited wearily. From time to time the driver glanced up
at the door of the house and then back at the carriage, shaking his
head and muttering fiercely:
"Stand still, you sons of the devil, stand still! You prance and shy
as if Satan himself had stuck a dart in you! Hey, there!--Back, back,
you limb! Will the Bárin never come?"
He swore vigorously to himself under his beard, and the flakes fell
from him in a shower. After a while the door of the house opened; some
one appeared on the steps and a voice called out:
"Bobo, eh Bobo! Is that you, are you ready? Heavens, what a night!"
"All ready, Monsieur Velasco, all ready."
"The boxes on?"
"Yes, Bárin."
"You took my valise, did you?"
"Yes, Bárin."
The figure disappeared for an instant within the doorway and the light
went out; then he reappeared, carrying a violin-case under his arm,
which he screened from the wet with the folds of his cloak, carefully,
as a mother would cover the face of her child. He leaped to the
carriage.
"All right, Bobo, go ahead. Wait a moment until I get the latch open.
Ye gods! I never felt such cold. My fingers are like frozen sticks.
There! Now, the Station: Warchávski Voksál--as fast as you can! Ugh,
what a storm!"
The Violinist flung himself back in the corner of the karéta, huddling
himself in the furs; the windows were shut and his breath made a steam
against the panes. The carriage was black as a cave.
"There ought to be another fur!" he said angrily to himself. His teeth
were chattering and his whole body shivered against the cushions. "I
told Bobo to put in an extra fur. The devil now, where can it be?"
He groped with his hands, feeling the seat beside him, when all of a
sudden he gave an exclamation, alarmed, half suppressed, his eyes
staring into the darkness, trying vainly to penetrate.
What was it? Something was there, moving, breathing, alive, on the
seat close beside him. Gracious heaven! He wasn't alone! Velasco
crouched back instinctively, putting out both hands as if to ward off a
blow. He listened, peering. Surely something breathed--there, in the
corner! He could make out a shadow, an outline.--No, nothing--it was
nothing at all.
His pulses beat rapidly; he groped again with his hands, slowly,
fearfully, hesitating and then groping again. It was as though
something, someone were trying to elude him in the darkness. His
breath came fast; he listened again.
Something cowered and breathed--"Bózhe moi!" He gripped his lip with
his teeth and hurled himself forward, grappling into the furthermost
recesses of the karéta. His hands grasped a cloak, a human shoulder, a
body. It dragged away from him. He clutched it and something shrank
back into the shadows. His eyes were blind; he could see nothing, he
could hear nothing; he could only feel. It was breathing.
His hand moved cautiously over the cloak, the shoulder. It resisted
him, trying vainly to escape; and then, as the carriage dashed on
through the darkness, he dragged the thing forward, nearer--nearer,
struggling. The breath was on his cheeks. He felt it distinctly--the
rustle of something alive.
Velasco clenched his teeth together, clutching the thing, and held it
under the window-pane, close, close, straining forward. As he did so
the rays of a street lamp fell through the glass, a faint, pale light
through the steam on the panes; a flash and it was over. Velasco gave
a cry.
Beside him was a woman, slight and veiled, and she was crouching away
from him, holding her hands before her face, panting, frightened, even
as he was.
"Who are you?" cried Velasco, "What are you? Speak, for the love of
heaven! I feel as if I were going mad. Speak!"
He shook the cloak in his trembling grasp and, as he did so, a hand
pressed into his own. It was bare, and soft like the leaf of a rose.
He grasped it. The fingers clung to him, alive and warm. Velasco
hesitated. Then he dropped the hand and from his pocket he snatched a
match, striking it against the side of the carriage. It sputtered and
went out. He struck another. It flickered for a moment and he held it
between his hands, coaxing it. It burned and he held it out, gazing
into the corner, coming nearer and nearer. The eyes gleamed at him
from behind the veil; nearer--He could see the oval of the face, the
lips. Then the match went out.
"Kaya--Kaya!"
He snatched at her hand again in the darkness and held it under the
fur. "You came after all," he whispered hoarsely, "I thought I had
dreamed it. Speak to me; let me hear your voice."
He felt her bending towards him; her shoulder touched his. "You
promised--I hold you to your promise."
"Yes; yes!"
"Have you changed your mind?"
"No.--Don't take your hand away. No! It is horrible, the storm and
the blackness. Hear the wind shriek! The hoofs of the horses are
padded with snow; they are galloping. How the carriage lurches and
sways! Are you afraid, Kaya? Don't--don't take your hand away."
Velasco's voice was husky and forced like a string out of tune. It was
strange, extraordinary to be sitting there in that dark, black cave,
his hand clasping the hand of a woman, a stranger. The two sat silent.
The horses plunged forward.
Suddenly they stopped. Velasco started as out of a dream and sprang to
the window, wiping the steam from the panes with his sleeve.
"Bobo!" he cried, "Madman! This is not the Station. Where are you
going, idiot--fool!"
His voice was smothered suddenly by a hand across his lips.
"Hush, Monsieur, have you forgotten? The driver knows, he is one of
us. Come with me; and I pray you, I beseech you, don't speak, don't
make a sound; step softly and follow."
In a moment the girl was out of the carriage and Velasco behind. Her
veil fluttered back; her cloak brushed his shoulder. The storm and the
wind beat against them. He ran blindly forward, battling with the
gale; but fast as he went she went faster. He could scarcely keep up.
In the distance behind them, the carriage and horses were lost in a
white mist, a whirl.
"Here," she cried, "Bow your head, quick, the arch--and then through
the gate--run! Take my hand in the court--let me lead you. I know
every step. Run--run! You waited so long; we shall be late. There is
barely time before the train. Ah, run, Monsieur--run!"
The two figures dashed through the alley and into an open cloister,
running with their heads bowed against the wind, struggling with the
snow in their eyes, in their throats; blinded, panting.
"Stop!" gasped Velasco, "I can't run like this. Stop! You mad thing,
you witch! Where, where are you going? Stop, I tell you!"
She dragged at his hand. "Come--a moment further. Come, Monsieur.
Ah, it is death--don't falter. Run!"
She caught at a little door under the wall and pushed it madly. It
yielded. He sprang in behind her; and then he stood blinking, amazed.
They were alone in the dark, ghostly nave of a huge Church. The long
rows of columns stretched out in the distance, tall and stately like
pines in a forest; the aisles were broad and shadowy, leading far off
in a distant perspective to the outline of an altar and a high cross
suspended. They were dim, barely visible.
"Where are we?" he murmured, faltering. "Kaya, speak--tell me."
She put up her face close to his and he saw that her lips were
quivering, her eyes blurred with tears. Her veil was white with the
snow, like a bride's. She dragged at his hand, and he followed her
dumbly, their footsteps echoing, a soft patter across the marble of the
church.
It was absolutely dark; only on the far distant altar three candles
were lighted, three sparks, red and restless, like fireflies gleaming.
Otherwise the nave, the chancel, the transepts were as one vast
blackness stretching before them. They fled on in silence; their goal
was the candles.
At first the space before the altar seemed empty, deserted, like the
rest of the Church; but as they approached, nearer and nearer, three
forms seemed to melt from the back of the choir and stood on the steps;
two were figures in cloaks; the third was a priest. His surplice shone
in the shadows against the outline of the columns. He mounted the
steps of the altar and stood with his face to the cross. They seemed
to be waiting.
To Velasco the sound of his footsteps echoed and reverberated on the
marble, filling the darkness. The noise of them was terrible. He
would have covered his ears with his hands, but the girl urged him
forward. The soft fingers crept about his own like a vine, clinging,
irresistible.
"Come," she breathed, "ah, come, Monsieur--come!"
Then he followed, moving forward hurriedly, blindly, like one
hypnotized. His senses were dulled; his will was inert. When he came
to himself he was kneeling beside her on the marble, and he heard the
voice of the priest, chanting slowly in Slavonic:
"Blessed is our God always, and ever, and unto ages of ages.
"In peace let us pray to the Lord for the servant of God, Velasco, and
for the hand-maid of God, Kaya, who now plight each other their troth,
and for their salvation. . . . That he will send down upon them
perfect and peaceful love. . . . That he will preserve them in oneness
of mind and in steadfastness of faith. . . . That he will bless them
with a blameless life. . . . That he will deliver us from all
tribulation, wrath, peril and necessity. . . . Lord have mercy!
"Lord have mercy!"
He listened in bewilderment; was it himself, or his ghost, his shadow.
He tried to think, but everything melted before him in a mist. The
girl by his side was a wraith; they were dead, and this was some
strange unaccountable happening in another world. The marble felt cold
to his knees. Velasco tried to move, to rise, but the hand of the
priest held him down. The voice chanted on:
"Hast thou, Velasco, a good, free and unconstrained will and a firm
intention to take unto thyself to wife this woman, Kaya, whom thou
seest here before thee?"
And in the pause, he heard himself answering, strangely, dreamily, in a
voice that was not his own:
"I have, reverend Father."
"Thou hast not promised thyself to any other bride?"
"I have not promised myself, reverend Father."
Then he felt the hand of the priest, pressing the crown down on his
forehead; it weighed on his brow, and when he tried to shake it off he
could not.
"The servant of God, Velasco, is crowned unto the hand-maid of God,
Kaya. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy
Spirit. Amen."
"The servant of God, Kaya, is crowned unto the servant of God, Velasco.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Amen."
"O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour.
"O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour.
"O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour!"
Velasco passed his hand over his face; he was breathing heavily. The
crown glittered in the darkness.
"And so may the Father and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the all-holy,
consubstantial and life-giving Trinity, one God-head, and one Kingdom,
bless you, and grant you length of days, . . . prosperity of life and
faith: and fill you with all abundance of earthly good things, and make
you worthy to obtain the blessings of the promise: through the prayers
of the holy Birth-giver of God, and of all the saints. Amen."
"Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit now, and
ever, and unto ages and ages."
"Amen."
The chanting ceased suddenly, and there was silence. Then he felt
something falling against him, and he staggered to his feet, dragging
the girl up with him. She trembled and shook, pushing him back with
her hands; her eyes were full of terror, staring up into his, the eyes
of her husband. Again everything grew misty and swayed.
He was signing a paper; how his fingers quivered; he could scarcely
hold the pen! The priest drew nearer, and the two cloaked figures.
They all signed; and then he felt the paper crackling in the bosom of
his coat, where he had thrust it. They were hurrying back through the
dark, ghostly nave.
They were running, and the sound of their footsteps seemed louder and
noisier than before; they ran side by side, through the door in the
wall, the cloisters, the arch, bowing their heads; and there was the
carriage, a great blot of whiteness, the horses like spectres. The
snow came whirling through the air in sharp, icy flakes, cutting the
skin. The wind grew fiercer, more violent.
With a last desperate effort Velasco dashed forward, pursuing the veil,
the fluttering cloak--and the door of the carriage closed behind them.
In that moment, as it closed, the horses leaped together, as twin
bullets from the mouth of a cannon; galloping, lashed and terrified
through the night. It was still inside the karéta.
Suddenly Velasco was conscious of a voice at his elbow, whispering to
him out of the silence: "Thank you, Monsieur, ah, I thank you! We
shall be at the station directly; then a few hours more and it will
be--over! You will never see--me--again! I thank you--I thank you
with all my heart."
The voice was soft and low, like a violin when the mute is on the
strings. He could scarcely hear it for the lurching of the carriage.
The horses gave a final plunge forward, and then fell back suddenly,
reined in by an iron hand, and the karéta came to a standstill.
The station was all light and confusion; porters were rushing about,
truckmen and officials, workmen carrying coloured lanterns. "Not a
second to spare!" cried Velasco, "Send the trunks after me,
Bobo--Here--my valise!"
He snatched up his violin-case, and the slim, dark-veiled figure darted
beside him. "If we miss it!" he heard her crying in his ear, "I shall
never forgive myself! I shall--never--forgive myself!"
"We shan't miss it!" cried Velasco, "I have the tickets, the passports
for you and for me! Here--to the left! The doors are still open!"
An official rushed forward and took the valise from Velasco's hand:
"Here, sir--here! First class compartment!"
Velasco nodded breathlessly, and the two sank down on the crimson
cushions; the door slammed. "Ye gods!" They were alone in the
compartment; they were saved! Velasco gave a little laugh of triumph.
He was hugging his violin close in his arms, and opposite him sat the
slim veiled figure. She was looking at him from behind the veil--and
she was his wife. "Ye gods!" he laughed again.
"Why are you trembling?" he said, "We are safe now. I told you I had
the passports. Are you cold, or afraid?--You shake like a leaf!"
The girl put out her hand, touching his. "Did you see?" she breathed,
"There--on the platform--Boris, the Chief of the Third Section!--He was
watching!"
Velasco laughed again aloud, happily, like a boy: "What of it? Let him
watch! Put up your veil, Kaya. Great heavens, what a night it has
been! My heart is going still like a hammer--is yours? Lean back on
the cushions--put up your veil. Let me see you once,--let me see you!
Look at me as you did in the Theatre--Kaya! Don't tremble."
"He is there," breathed the girl, "I see him behind the curtain! He is
talking to the official--The train is late and it doesn't start. Why
doesn't it start?"
She gave a little moan and peered out through the veil: "Something has
happened, Monsieur! The officials are clustered together,
talking--there is some excitement! They are gesticulating and several
are pointing to the train! What is it--what is it?"
Velasco laughed again; but the laugh died in his throat. The two
turned and gazed at one another with wide, frightened eyes.
"The Chief of the Third Section--see! He is going from compartment to
compartment--He is looking at the passports! He is coming here--here!"