The office of the Polkovnik was small and narrow, low, with ceiling and
walls hewn out of the rock. At one end was a window barred, looking
out upon a court; at the opposite end the door. On either side of the
door stood a soldier in Cossack uniform, huge fellows, sabred, with
their helmets belted under their chins, and their fierce, black eyes
staring straight ahead, scarcely blinking.
In the centre of the room was a table, and before the table an officer
seated, also in uniform, but his head was bare and his helmet lay on
the litter of papers at his elbow. He had a long, ugly face with a
swarthy complexion, and eyes that were sharp and cold like steel,
piercing as the point of a rapier and cruel. He was tossing the litter
of papers impatiently, examining one after another at intervals, then
pushing them back. He was evidently waiting, and as he waited he swore
to himself under his breath, glancing from time to time at the
Cossacks; but they stood stiff and immovable like marble, looking
neither to right nor to left. Presently the officer leaned forward and
touched a bell on the table.
"There is no use waiting any longer," he said curtly, "Bring them in."
The hammer of the bell was still tinkling when the door swung back
suddenly on its hinges and two people, a man and a woman, were half
led, half dragged into the room; the Cossacks prodding them on with the
blunt edge of their sabres.
"Brr--" said the officer sharply.
In a flash the Cossacks had leaped to their niches, their forms rigid
and motionless, only the tassels on their helmets quivering slightly to
show that they had stirred. The man and the woman were left beside the
table.
"Your names?" demanded the officer, "The woman first."
The girl drew herself up wearily; her face was wan in the morning
light, and her hair fell about her shoulders, dishevelled, a bright
golden mass, curling about her forehead and ears in little rings and
spirals like the tendrils of a vine. Her eyes were proud and she
looked the officer full in the face, her hands clenched. Her voice
rang full and scornful.
"My name is the Countess Kaya and I am the daughter of General
Mezkarpin. What have you to say to me?"
"We have a good deal to say to you, Madame," retorted the Cossack, "if
it is true that you are the Countess. I never saw her myself, but the
Chief will be here presently. He knows her very eye-lashes, and if you
have lied--"
"I have not lied," cried the girl, "How dare you speak to me like that!
Send for my father, do you hear me? At once! The General Mezkarpin."
She repeated the name distinctly and her shoulders stiffened, her blue
eyes flashed. "A friend of the Tsar as you are aware. Be careful!
What you do, what you say, every act, every word shall be reported to
him."
"If you have not lied," continued the Cossack smoothly, "it will be
still worse for you, far worse!" He began smiling to himself and
twirling his mustache. "If it is true, this report, I doubt if you
leave here alive, Madame, unless it is for the Mines. You have an ugly
crime at your door. How you ever escaped is a wonder! The Chief has
been on your track for some time, but he was late as usual; he is
always slow about arresting the women, especially if they are--"
The Cossack showed his teeth suddenly in a loud laugh, leering at the
slim, young figure before him. The girl blanched to the lips.
"A crime!" she said, "What crime?"
Then she put out her hand slowly, shrinkingly, and touched the figure
beside her as if to make sure that he was there.
The man was standing dazed, staring from the girl to the Cossack and
back again. Mezkarpin's daughter, the great Mezkarpin, the friend of
Nicholas! And accused of--what? It was a mistake--nothing! He passed
his hand over his eyes.
"Is this woman your wife?" said the officer shortly, "Answer."
"She is my wife."
"Where are the papers?"
The man unbuttoned his coat and felt in his breast pocket, the left,
the right; then the pockets of his vest.
"I have them here, somewhere," he stammered, "Where in the devil! They
were here last night!"
He felt again desperately. "They seem to be gone! What can have
become of them? I put them here--here!" He searched again.
"Curious!" said the official, "Ha ha!"
The prisoner stared at him for a moment blinking. "You impudent
scoundrel!" he cried, "She is my wife, papers or no papers. Ask
her!--Kaya!"
The girl held herself straight and aloof. She was gazing down at the
litter of papers on the table; her face was white and her lips were
clenched in her teeth.
"Kaya--tell him! The papers are lost! God, they are gone somehow!
Tell him--"
The girl released her lip and her voice came out suddenly, ringing,
clear as if the room had been large and the Cossack deaf; it seemed to
burst from her throat.
"I am not his wife," she said, "He is mistaken. He is telling you that
out of kindness. Monsieur is a stranger to me, until last night a
perfect stranger. I don't know him at all. Don't believe what he
says. You see for yourself there are no papers. Is it likely?"
The tones of her voice seemed to die away suddenly and a drop of blood
oozed from her lip. She wiped it away and clinched her teeth again,
fiercely, as if hedging her words.
"Kaya!" cried the man. "She is my wife, I tell you, she is my wife!
The priest married us. I can prove it."
"Silence," cried the Cossack. "What do we care if you are married or
not. You will be imprisoned anyway for meddling in a matter that does
not concern you. Silence, I tell you. Answer my questions. What is
your name?"
"My name is Velasco."
"Ha--the musician?"
"Yes."
"Very good! Try again. There is only one Velasco in Russia, as every
one knows, and he isn't here. Your name? Tell the truth if you can."
"My name is Velasco."
"The devil it is!" cried the Cossack, "Ha ha!--You two make a pair
between you. Velasco! The Wizard of the bow! The one all Russia is
mad over! Ye saints! I would give my old cavalry boots to have heard
him. Bah--you anarchist dog! Now, damn you, answer me straight or
I'll make you. Your name?"
The Cossack leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing fiercely, shaking
his fist. "No nonsense now; do you think we can't prove it?
Quick--your name?"
The prisoner folded his arms and stared up at the cross-barred window,
half closing his eyes. The brows seemed to swell, to weigh down the
lids.
"Will you answer or not?"
Velasco swayed a little and a dark gleam shot out between the slits:
"If I had been brought up a soldier," he said, "instead of a musician,
I should take pleasure in knocking you down; as it is, my muscles were
trained to much better purpose. This interview, sir, is becoming
unpleasant. I will trouble you to send for my Stradivarius at once.
Some of your men stole it, I fancy, last night. It is worth its weight
twice over in gold. There is not another like it in the country,
perhaps in the world. The next time his majesty, the Tsar, requests my
presence, I shall inform him that the violin is here in his fortress,
stolen by a slovenly, insolent official, who doesn't know a violin from
a block of wood, or a note from a pin head." His eyes drooped again.
The Cossack examined him narrowly.
"If you are Velasco," he said after a little, "Khoroshó[1]! then prove
it. There was a case brought in last night, it might have been a
fiddle. Brr--Ivanovitch, go for it. No. 17,369, in the third
compartment, by the wall. That isn't a bad idea!" He rubbed his hands
together and laughed, showing his teeth like a wolf: "There is only the
one Velasco and I know a thing or two about music in spite of your
impudence. You can't cheat me." He laughed loud and long.
Velasco stood imperturbable, his arms folded; he seemed to be dreaming,
his mind far away. The words fell on his ear like drops of water on a
roof, rolling off, leaving no sign.
The girl looked up at him and her lips quivered slightly. She pressed
them with her handkerchief and again a drop of blood blotted the white;
then she drew them in with her teeth and drooped her head wearily, the
confusion of her hair encircling it like a framing of gold, veiling her
brow and her cheeks.
"Ah, here is Ivanovitch," cried the Cossack, "and here is the fiddle.
Now, for a lark! Brr--Milikai, go for the Colonel, he is musical--ha
ha! No, stop! I will keep the fun to myself. Shut the door. Is the
Chief here yet?"
"No, Gospodin."
"Sapristi! Never mind, shut the door--shut the door!"
Velasco roused suddenly. He looked about him, dazed for a moment; then
he sprang forward, attacking the Cossack and tearing the case from his
hands. His eyes were bright and eager; his voice coming in little
leaps from his throat, full of joy and relief.
"My violin, my treasure! My beloved, give it to me! You brute, you
great hulking savage, if it is damaged or broken, I'll kill you! Out
of my way! Let it go--or I'll strike you!--Let go!"
He snatched the case to his breast and carried it over to the table,
opening it, unfolding the wrappings. They were silken and heavy. The
violin lay swathed in them, the glossy arch of its body glistening
yellow, golden and resinous. He touched it tenderly, lifting it,
examining it, absorbed, engrossed, like a mother a child that has been
bruised.
The official stared at him in amazement; the Cossacks gaped under their
helmets. The girl watched him with wistful eyes. She understood. It
was the artist-temperament in full command. The man had vanished, the
musician was in possession. He was rocked by it, swayed, overpowered,
a slave. His eyes saw nothing; his ears heard nothing; his mind was a
whirl, a wonderful chaos of sound, of colour, of notes dancing, leaping.
The bow was in his hand, the violin was on his breast. He closed his
eyes, swaying, pressing it to his cheek. The eyes of the girl filled
with tears. It was just as he had said. He was talking to it and it
was answering him, softly at first, faint and low, his fingers scarcely
touching the strings; then the tones burst out, full, radiant, like a
bud into bloom, rushing, soaring, echoing up to the walls of the room,
striking the stone, bounding back, dying away. He was drunk, he was
mad; he was clasping the thing, forcing it, pressing it, swaying it,
and the strings leaped after his will.
She fell back against the wall, steadying herself, and her eyes drank
in the sight of him as her ears the sound--the slight, swaying figure,
the dark head bowed with his hair like a mane, the arm with the bow,
the abandon of the wrist, the white, flashing fingers. She drew a
quick breath.
The official sat open-mouthed. The cruelty had gone from his face, the
sharp, steely look from his eyes. He was grasping the desk with both
hands, leaning forward, staring as one who is benumbed, hypnotized.
Velasco played as he had never played before. He was playing for his
life, his identity, his freedom; and suddenly into the tones crept
another consciousness, subtle at first, scarcely heard, something
fragile and weak, new born as if struggling for breath. He stopped and
passed his hand over his eyes, dropping the bow. Where was he! What
had happened! Was it his life, or hers, he was playing to save?--Oh
God!
He gazed at her across the room, into the two deep wells of her eyes,
and again his muscles swelled, his chin stiffened. He stood there
gazing, struggling with himself; his one personality against the other;
the hair falling over his brows, the violin clasped in his arms.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door.
The Cossack gave a long sigh. He went up to Velasco slowly and took
his hand, the hand with the bow.
"Great heaven!" he cried, "I am exhausted, I am limp as a rag! There
is not another soul in Russia, in the world, who can play like that!
You are marvellous, wonderful! All they said was too little.
Monsieur--there is no further doubt in my mind, I ask your forgiveness.
You are, you can be no other than he--Velasco."
The knock was repeated.
"Come in!" cried the Cossack. His voice was hoarse and he cleared his
throat: "Come in!"
The door opened and General Mezkarpin strode into the room, followed by
the Chief of the Third Section. The Cossacks saluted with their hands
stiffly laid to their helmets; the officer stepped forward to meet
them, bowing. All the assurance was gone from his manner; he was now
the servant, the soldier in the presence of his superior. The General
waved him aside. His face was florid and red; he was a large man,
heavy, with prominent features, and his sword clanked against the stone
of the floor as he moved. The girl was still leaning against the wall.
When she saw him she gave a little cry and sprang forward, stretching
out her hands: "Father!" she cried, "Father!" And then she stopped
suddenly and clasped her hands to her breast.
"Is this the woman you meant?" said the General, turning to Boris. He
spoke as if he were on the parade-ground, every word sharp, caustic,
staccato.
"Right, left, shoulder arms, march!"--"Is this the woman?"
"It is, General."
"She was in the Duke's room?"
"She was."
"You found her in the train?"
"In the train, last night, with this man."
"You say she is an anarchist?"
"We have known it for some time, sir."
The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes
were red like blood. He approached the girl and stood over her, his
fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself
with a difficult effort.
"You heard?" he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart,
detached. "Is it true? Are you mixed up with this infernal
Revolutionary business? My daughter! An anarchist against the Tsar?
Look me in the eyes and answer. May all the curses of heaven strike
you if it is true."
The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing
straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her. "It is true," she said,
"I am an anarchist."
The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in
blotches. His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came
nearer.
"You fired the shot?" he cried, "You! Answer me, on your soul--the
truth. It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan? You?"
The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair
fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering. Still she looked
at him and signed an assent.
"You--you shot the Grand-Duke?"
Her lips moved and she bowed her head.
The General stood paralyzed with horror. He was like one on the verge
of apoplexy; his tongue stammered, his limbs refused to move. Then he
drew back slowly, inch by inch, and stared at the girl with the anger
and passion growing in his eyes.
"You are no daughter of mine!" he cried stammering, "You are a
murderess, a criminal! You have killed the Grand-Duke--in his own
house you have killed him!"
"Father!--Father!"
He gasped and put his hand to his throat. "Be still! I am not your
father. You are no child of mine. I curse you--with my last breath I
curse you.--Do with her as you like."
He turned to the Chief, staggering like a drunken man, panting. "Take
her away--Take her out of my sight. Send her to Siberia, to the
Mines--anywhere! Let her pay the uttermost penalty! Let her die! She
is nothing to me!--Curse her!--Curse her!--Curse her!"
The Chief made a sign to the Cossacks and they sprang forward, one on
either side of the girl. She shrank back.
"Father!" she cried.
"Chórt vozmí, I am not your father! Take her away, I tell you." With
a stifled oath the General flung his hands to his head and rushed from
the room.
Velasco still stood dazed, clasping his violin. He was shivering as
though he had a chill, and the roughness, the brutality of the words,
the slamming of the door, went through him like a knife. He dropped
his violin on the litter of papers.
"By heaven!" he cried, "What a terrible thing! What brutes you all
are! She is my wife--mine! No matter what she has done, she is my
wife. Let go of her you savages!--Kaya! Help her, some of you--don't
let them take her! They are dragging her away!--Kaya! Stop them--stop
them!"
He was struggling like a madman in the arms of the official, fighting
with all his strength; but the muscles of the Cossack were like iron,
they held him in a vice. The Chief sprang forward. They held him, and
the girl was dragged from the room, brutally, roughly with blows.
She looked back over her shoulder and her eyes, with a strange, tense
look, gazed deep into Velasco's. They were dark and blue, full of
anguish. Her whole soul was in them; they were beseeching him, they
were thanking him, they were saying goodbye. He struggled towards her.
A moment--and she was gone.
The great door swung back on its hinges, the latch clicked.
A faint, low cry came back from the distance.
Velasco's arms dropped to his side and he stared fiercely from one
official to the other. He tried to speak and could not. The cry came
back to him, and as he heard it, his throat throbbed, his heart seemed
to stop beating.
"You can go now," said the official. "We know who you are, and there
is nothing against you."
He whispered something to the Chief. They handed him his violin and
his case with its wrappings, and led him to the door. He followed them
out, up the winding steps, through the passages, out into the court,
stumbling blindly.
"You can go--there is nothing against you."
He walked straight on with his head bent forward, his eyes on the
ground. He clasped the violin in one hand, the case with the other.
He was shivering.
The cry followed him out into the street. It rang in his ears. Her
eyes were gazing into his with a strange tenseness. He could feel
them. He was dumb, he was helpless.
Oh God--the cry again! It was low, it was faint, it was broken with
pain. He stumbled on.
[1] Very well.