"Is Monsieur Velasco in?"
"He is, sir."
"Tell him his manager, Galitsin, is here and must speak to him at once."
"Very well, Bárin, but--he is composing. He has been composing for
days--Monsieur knows?"
"I know," said the Manager.
He was a short, thick-set man with crisp, curly hair, a wide mouth, a
blunt nose, and eyes that twinkled perpetually as though at some inward
joke that he did not share with the rest of the world; they twinkled
now and he snapped his fingers.
"Go ahead, Bobo, you coward. If he insists on hurling a boot at your
head, why dodge it--dodge it! Or wait, stay where you are. I will
announce myself."
The old servant retreated with alacrity down the hallway, stepping
lightly as if on eggs with his finger on his lips, while the Manager
opened the Studio door softly, without knocking, and closed it behind
him.
Before the fire-place, with his back to the door, sat Velasco. His
shoulders were bent, his head was in his hands; he was motionless. The
Manager cleared his throat slowly with emphasis:
"Eh, Velasco, is that you?"
The young Musician leaped to his feet as if struck by a blow, and faced
the intruder angrily, tossing the hair away from his brows. His face
was pale, as of one who has watched instead of sleeping, and his eyes
were haggard and bloodshot.
"A hundred devils take you!" he cried, "What are you doing here? I
told Bobo to keep people out, the treacherous rascal! For heavens sake
go and leave me in peace; I tell you Galitsin, go! Don't come near me."
The Manager laughed: "Composing, Velasco?"
"Can't you see it? Of course I am composing. Go!" He waved his hand
towards the door. "Don't talk."
"You must talk with me," exclaimed the Manager briskly, "Now Velasco,
there's no use, you will have to listen to reason. The way you are
behaving is outrageous, abominable! All your German engagements have
gone to the wall. My desk is piled high with letters; the agents are
furious. In Leipzig the Gewandhaus was entirely sold out a fortnight
ago. In Dresden there isn't a seat left. Why the money loss is
something tremendous! I had a telegram this morning; they are nearly
crazy. You must keep your engagements; you will ruin your career
utterly, absolutely. You will never dare show your face in Germany
again. And here you sit composing--composing! Good heavens, you look
like it! You look as if you had been on a bat for a week! You look
drunk, Velasco, drunk! I never saw such a change in a man! Come--wake
up! Rouse yourself! Take the train tonight."
The Manager laid his arm on the young Musician's shoulder and patted it
soothingly.
"Take the night train, Velasco. You ought to be playing, not
composing! You know that as well as I do. If you go tonight, you will
reach Leipzig in time. It makes a difference of thousands of roubles
to me as well as to you; remember that. You musicians have no
conscience. Come, Velasco--are you listening?"
The Musician stood listless, his hands in his pockets, staring down at
the bricks of the chimney piece.
"What is that?" he exclaimed, "Were you speaking?--Oh, damn you,
Galitsin, why don't you go? I'm not a slave! I won't stir one step in
Germany if I don't feel like it; I swear I won't! Cancel everything,
everything. Heavens! I couldn't play if I tried! You managers are
like the old man of the mountain; you want to sit on my neck and lash
me on as if I were Sinbad. All for the sake of a few dirty roubles to
put in your pocket! What do I care? I won't do it, I tell you. Go
and manage somebody else; get another slave. Petrokoff over there in
Moscow! He will be like a little lamb and eat out of your hand. Now
be off--be off! Your voice is like a bee buzzing."
Velasco threw himself back in his chair again and blinked defiantly up
at the Manager through his bloodshot eyes. They were heavy and weary,
he could scarcely keep them open; his fingers strummed against the arm
of the chair and he began to whistle to himself softly, a quaint little
Polish air like a folk-song. Galitsin shook his head frowning:
"You are a perfect child, Velasco, when this mood gets hold of you.
There is no doing anything with you. Very well then, I wash my hands
of the whole business. Answer your own letters and satisfy the agents,
if you can. Tell them you are ill, dying, dead--anything you please."
"Bah!" said Velasco, "Don't answer them at all." He shut his eyes.
The Manager gave a hasty glance about the Studio and then he bent his
head to the chair, whispering:
"You have acted badly enough before, heaven knows, but never like this.
It is not the composing. Where is the score?--Not a note!" He
breathed a few words in Velasco's ear and the Musician started up.
"How did you know; who told you? The devil take you, Galitsin!"
The Manager smiled, running his hands through his short, crisp curls.
"Everyone knows; all St. Petersburg is talking about it. When a man of
your fame, Velasco, insists on befriending a Countess, and one who is
the daughter of Mezkarpin, and an anarchist to boot--"
He spread out his hands: "Ah, she is beautiful, I know. I saw her at
the Mariínski. She stared at you as if she were bewitched. You had
every excuse; but get down on your knees, Velasco, and give thanks. It
is no fault of yours that you are not tramping through the snow to
Siberia now, just as she is. A lesser man, one whose career was less
marked! By heaven, Velasco, what is it?--You are choking me!"
"Say it again!" cried the Musician, "You know where she is? Tell me!
By God, will you tell me, or not?--I'll force it out of you!"
"Let go of my throat!" gasped the Manager. "Sit down, Velasco! Don't
be so excitable, so violent! No wonder you play with such passion; but
I am not a violin, if you please. Take your hands off my throat and
sit down."
"Where is she?"
Galitsin straightened his collar and necktie before the mirror of the
mantel-piece. "What is the matter with you, Velasco? Any one would
suppose you were in love with her! Better not; she is doomed--she is
practically dead."
"Dead!"
"Don't fly up like that!--Sit down! I saw the Chief of Police
yesterday, and he gave me some advice to hand on to you."
"Is she dead, Galitsin?"
"No, but she will be. She is sent with a gang to the Ékaterinski
Zavad. They are gone already, chained together, and marching through
the snow and the cold. It is thousands of miles. A Countess, who has
undoubtedly never taken a step in her life without a maid--who knows!
She is frail, she won't live to get there."
The room was still for a moment and suddenly a coal fell from the fire
to the hearth with a thud, flaring up. Then it broke into ashes.
Presently the Manager continued:
"She shot the Grand-Duke Stepan, they say. I don't know. The thing
has been hushed up for the sake of Mezkarpin, poor man! The Chief told
me he had had a stroke in the prison and may not recover. The girl
must be a tigress!--Velasco! Are you asleep?--Wake up!--Velasco!"
"What mines did you say, Galitsin?"
"The Ékaterinski Zavad."
"They have started already?"
"Yesterday."
"The Chief told you that?"
"The Chief himself told me."
"Did he mention the route?"
"By the old road through Tobolsk, I dare say, the usual one. Come,
Velasco, don't brood over it!"
"Were they chained?"
The Musician shuddered and moved his limbs uneasily. "Chains,
Galitsin? Fancy, how horrible! How they must clank! It must be
maddening--jingling, rattling with every step--Ah!"
The Manager shrugged his shoulders. "When a woman undertakes to murder
the Grand-Duke Stepan, what else can she expect? Mezkarpin is a friend
of the Tsar, otherwise she would have been hung, or shot!--Why of
course! The Chief said she was utterly brazen about it. She asked
over and over if he were dead, and then said she was glad. Lucky for
you, Velasco, they recognized you, they didn't take you for an
accomplice; you would never have touched a violin again. All the
same--"
He glanced around the Studio again and his voice grew lower: "The Chief
gave warning. You are to leave Russia, he said. Velasco--listen to
me! He said you must leave Russia at once, to-night--do you hear?"
The Manager leaned forward and shook the Musician's shoulder angrily.
"Velasco, do you hear?--If you won't go for your Art, you must go for
your safety.--Do you hear me? You must!"
"I hear you," said Velasco, "You needn't bellow in my ear like a bull!
If I must, I suppose I must. Go and write your letters and leave me in
peace."
"Shall I tell the agents you are coming?"
"Tell them anything you like. Pull me about on wires like a little tin
puppet, and set me down anywhere in Europe, just as you please. I feel
like an automaton! You will be winding up my Stradivarius next with a
key. Now go, or I won't stir a step!"
The Manager took up his gloves and cane; he seemed uneasy. "You swear
you will start to-night, Velasco?"
"Be off!"
"By the night train? I shall meet you at the station."
"Very well. Good-bye."
"The Night Express?"
The Musician closed his eyes and nodded. "You cackle like an old
woman, Galitsin; you would talk a cricket dumb. Send me up Bobo, if
you see him, will you?--Good-bye."
Galitsin took out his watch. "In three hours then," he said, "Au
revoir! You have plenty of time to pack. Eleven thirty, Velasco."
The door closed behind the short, thick-set figure with the crisp,
curling hair, and the Musician waited in his chair. Presently the door
opened again.
"Is that you, Bobo,--eh? Come in. I sent for you. Didn't you tell me
your wife was ill?"
"Yes, Bárin."
"You would like to go to her to-night?--Well, go. I shan't need you.
Don't jabber, you make my head spin. Go at once and stay until
morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the
table--that is all. Just take yourself off and quietly."
After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps,
scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor. Velasco
leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring
into the coals.
"He may be one of them," he murmured, "or he may not. You can't trust
people. He is better out of the way."
The haggard look had deepened on his face; then he rose suddenly from
his chair and went into the next room, dropping the curtain behind him.
There were sounds in the room as of the pulling out of drawers, the
creaking of keys in a rusty lock, steps hurrying from one spot to
another, the fall of a heavy boot. Then presently the curtain was
drawn aside and he reappeared.
No, it was not Velasco; it was some one else, a gypsey in a rakish
costume. The mane of black hair was clipped close to his head; he wore
a scarf about his waist, a shabby jacket of velveteen on his back; his
trousers were short to the knees, old and spotted; his boots were worn
at the heel and patched. It wasn't Velasco--it was a gypsey, a
tattered, beggarly ragamuffin, with dark, brooding eyes and a laugh on
his lips, a laugh that was like a twist of the muscles.
He crossed the room stealthily on his tiptoes, glancing about him, and
stood before the mirror examining himself. At the first glance he
laughed out loud; then he clapped his hand over his mouth, listening
again. But he was alone, and the form reflected in the mirror was his
own, no shadow behind. He snatched up the lamp and held it close to
the glass, peering at himself from the crown of his close-cropped head
to the patch on his boot. He gazed at the scarf admiringly; it was red
with tassels, and he patted it with his free hand.
"That is how they do it!" he cried softly, laughing. "It is perfect.
I don't know myself! Ha ha!--I would cheat my own shadow. If the door
should open now, and Galitsin should come in--the ox! How he would
stare! And Bobo, poor devil, he would take me for a thief in my own
Studio.--God, what is that?--a step on the stairs! The police! They
come preying like beasts and seize one at night. She told me!"
The gypsey's hand trembled and shook, and the wick of the lamp flared
up. Great heaven! The step crept nearer--it was at the door--the door
moved! It was opening!
He dropped the lamp with a crash; the light went out and he staggered
back against the wall, clutching his scarf, straining his ears to hear
in the darkness.
The door opened wider.
Some one slipped through it and closed it again, and the step came
nearer, creaking on the boards. He heard the soft patter of hands
feeling their way, the faint sound of a breath. It was worse than in
the carriage, because the room was so large and the matches were on the
table, far off. There was no way of seeing, or feeling. The step came
nearer.
If it was a spy, he could grapple with him and throw him. The gypsey
took a step forward towards the other step, and all of a sudden two
bodies came together, grappling, wrestling. Two cries went up, the one
loud, the other faint like an echo.
"Hush, it is I, Velasco! You are soft like a woman! Your hair--It is
you, Kaya! It is you! I know your voice--your touch! Did you hear
the lamp crash? Wait! Let me light a candle."
He stumbled over to the table, feeling his way, clutching the soft
thing by the arm, the shoulder.
"It is you, Kaya, tell me, it is you! Damn the match, it is damp, how
it sputters!--Put your face close, let me see it. Kaya! Is it you,
yourself?"
The two faces stared at one another in the flickering light, almost
touching; then the other sprang back with a cry of dismay.
"You are a gypsey, you are not Velasco! The voice is his,--Dieu! And
the eyes--they are his, and the brows! Let me go! Don't laugh--let me
go!"
"No--no, Kaya, come back! It is I. They told me you were chained with
a gang; and were walking through the snow and the cold to the mines.
How did you escape; how could you escape?"
"Yes--it is you," said the girl, "I see now. It was the costume, and
your hair is all cut. I thought you had gone in the train to Germany."
She shuddered and clung to his hand. "Why do you wear that? Why
aren't you gone? The Studio was vacant, I thought--deserted, or I
shouldn't have come!"
Velasco gazed at her, chafing the cold, soft fingers between his own.
"Oh God, how I have suffered! I tried to reach you, I did everything,
and then I shut myself up here waiting--I was nearly mad. Kaya--you
escaped from the fortress alone, by yourself? Did they hurt you? You
cried out; it rings in my ears--that cry! It has never left me! I
shut myself up and paced the floor. Did they hurt you?"
The girl looked over her shoulder: "It was horrible, alone," she
breathed, "Some of the guards, the sentinels, belong to us. Hush--no
one knows; it must never be guessed. To-night, after dark, someone
whistled--one was waiting for me in the corridor with the keys; the
others were drugged. They handed me on to someone outside; I was
dropped like a pebble over the wall. Then I ran--straight here I ran."
She put her hand to her breast. "Why aren't you gone? Go now,
to-night. Leave me here. As soon as it is light I shall be missed,
and then--" She shuddered and her hand trembled in his, like a bird
that is caught, soft and quivering.
Velasco looked at her again and then he looked away at the candle: "I
won't leave you," he said, "and the railroad is useless. They would
track us at once. When I put this on--" He began smoothing the scarf.
"I meant to follow you through the snow and the cold to the mines, like
a beggar musician."
He laughed: "You didn't know me yourself, you see? I was safe."
"Monsieur Velasco, you were coming to me? Ah, but they told you a lie!
I--" She breathed a few words to him softly.
"They would have--"
She nodded.
"When?"
"To-morrow at daybreak."
"In spite of Mezkarpin?"
She broke down and buried her face in her hands.
Velasco began to pace the room slowly. "If you had a costume like
mine," he said, "If your hair were cut--" Then he brightened suddenly
and ran forward to the girl, snatching her hands from her eyes,
dragging her to her feet.
"What a fool I was!" he cried, "What an idiot! Quick, Kaya! My chum
is an artist; he is off now in Sicily, painting the rocks, and the sea,
and the peasants; but his things are all there in his room next to
mine, just duds for his models you know. Go--go! Put on one like
mine. You shall be a boy. We will be boys together, gypsies, and play
for our living. We will walk to the frontier, Kaya, together."
The two stared at one another for a moment. He was pushing her gently
towards the curtain. "Quick!" he whispered, "Be quick!" They both
listened for a moment.
Then he pushed her inside and dragged down the curtain: "Now, I must
pack," he cried, "Now I must prepare to meet Galitsin, the round-eyed
ox! Ha ha!--He will wait until he is stiff, and then he will fly back
here in a rage. Good God, we must hurry!" He began opening and
shutting the drawers, taking out money and jewels from one, articles of
apparel from another.
"No collars, no neck-ties!" he said to himself, "How simple to be a
gypsey! A knapsack will hold all for her and for me.--Kaya!--Bózhe
moi!"
The curtain was drawn back and in the doorway stood a boy.