The room was long, and low, and bare, lighted in the four corners by
lamps, small and ill-smelling. The ceiling was blackened by the smoke
from them, and the air was heavy, clouding the window-panes. At one
end of the room was a raised platform, and on the platform sat two
gypseys; the one was dark, in a picturesque, tattered costume, with a
scarf about his waist, and a violin; the other was slight, with golden
curls clipped short, and a ragged jacket of velveteen, worn at the
elbows.
The floor of the room was crowded with dancers; sturdy, square-faced
moujiks in high boots; and their sweethearts in kerchiefs and short
skirts. The moujiks perspired, stamping the boards with their boots
until the lamps rattled and shook, and the smoke rolled out of the
chimneys; embracing the heavy forms of the women with hands worn and
still grimy with toil. The tones of the violin filled the room. "One,
two--one, two--one, two, three--curtsey and turn--one, two, three."
The dark haired gypsey sat limply in his chair, playing, his back half
turned to the room. There was no music before him. He improvised as
he played, snatches of themes once forgotten, woven and bound with
notes of his own. His eyes were closed; he swayed a little in his
chair, holding the violin close to his cheek.
"One, two--one, two--one, two, three."
The younger gypsey sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing down at the
whirling crowd, blurred by the smoke. In his hands he held a
tambourine, which he shook occasionally in rhythm with the waltz,
glancing over his shoulder at his companion and laughing. Occasionally
they whispered together.
"You play too well, Velasco! Hist--scratch with the bow!"
"I can't, Kaya, it is maddening!"
"Just a little, Velasco."
"Is that better? Týsyacha chertéi, how it rasps one's ears!"
"Yes, but your technique, Velasco! No gypsey could play like that!
Leave out the double stops and the trills!"
"I forget, little one, I forget! The Stradivarius plays itself. Keep
the castanet rattling and then I will remember."
"Velasco, hist--st! There are strangers standing by the door; they
have just come in! Scratch a little more, just a little. Your tone is
so deep and so pure. When you rubato, and then quicken suddenly, and
the notes come in a rush like that, I can hardly keep still. My pulses
are leaping, dancing! One, two--one, two, three!"
"Is that right? Don't ask me to scratch, Kaya! I can't bear it so
close to my ear. The din of their stamping is frightful, the swine!
No one will notice."
The whispering ceased. The gypsey bent his dark head again and the
violin played on. "One, two--one, two, three!"
All of a sudden, voices began to call out from the floor, here and
there among the dancers, irritated and angry; then an oath or two:
"Keep time, Bradjaga, keep time!" Their heels beat against the floor.
The landlord crossed the room hastily, edging in and out among the
dancers; he was frowning and rubbing his hands one over the other.
When he reached the platform, he leaned on it with his elbows and
beckoned to the gypsies.
"You don't play badly," he called, "not badly at all; but Dimitri, the
old man, he suited them better. He always came strong on the beat.
Play the old tunes, Bradjaga; something they know with a crash on the
first, like this."
He clapped his hands: "_One_, two, three! _One_, two, three! And
fast--just so, all the time!"
"Chórt vozmí[1]!" cried Velasco, "They don't like my playing! Don't
clap your hands again--don't! The racket is enough to split one's
ear-drums!"
He dropped his violin on his knees and stared blinking at the landlord,
who was still gesticulating and taking little skipping steps by way of
illustration.
"_One_, two, three--_one_, two, three! So, loud and strong! Just try
it, Bradjaga!"
Velasco blinked again and a flush came slowly in his cheeks: "My poor
Stradivarius," he said slowly in Polish, "They don't like you; they
prefer a common fiddler with a crash on the beat! Bózhe moi! Kaya, do
you hear?"
The younger gypsey made a sound half startled, half laughing, drawing
nearer to him on the platform. "Hist, Velasco! They are peasants;
they don't know! Ah, be careful--the strangers are crossing the floor.
They are looking at you and talking together! I knew it, I feared it!"
The dancing had stopped, and threading their way through the groups
came several ladies and a gentleman.
"Bradjaga," said the landlord, "This is Ivan Petrokoff, the famous
musician of Moscow, who has deigned to honour my humble house with his
presence. He wishes to examine your instrument."
The gentleman nodded brusquely and stretched out a fat hand. He was
short and quite bald, and he stuttered as he spoke. "Quite a d-decent
fiddle for a gypsey," he said, "Let me s-see it!"
Velasco bowed with his hand on his heart: "It is mine," he said in a
humble voice, "A thousand pardons, Bárin! Impossible!"
"I will p-pay you for it!" said the gentleman angrily, "How much do you
w-want?"
Velasco smiled and put his hand to his heart again, shrugging his
shoulders.
"Not that it is of any p-particular value," continued Petrokoff, "but I
like the t-tone. I will give you--hm--s-sixty-five roubles!"
Velasco drew the bow softly over the strings; he was still smiling.
"Seventy! That is exorbitant for a g-gypsey's fiddle! You could buy
a d-dozen other instruments for that, just as good! Come--will you
t-take it?"
Velasco began to trill softly on the G string, and then swept over the
arch with an arpeggio pianissimo.
"You are like a J-Jew!" exclaimed the musician. "You want to bargain!
One hundred r-roubles then! There!" He turned to the landlord,
stretching out his fat hands, palms upwards. "Absurd isn't it? The
f-fellow must be mad!"
"Mad indeed," echoed the landlord, "A miserable, tattered bradjaga, who
can't even keep time. You heard yourself, Professor, how he changed
the beat and threw the dancers out, every moment or so. They are
nothing but tramps; but if you want a fiddle, Bárin, old Dimitri, who
is sick in bed with the rheumatism in his legs, he will sell you his
for a quarter the price and be thankful. A nice little instrument,
fine and well polished, not old and yellow with the back worn!"
He twiddled his fingers in contempt.
Velasco ran lightly a scale over the strings. His hair fell over his
brows and he half closed his eyes, gazing at the musician through the
slits mockingly.
"Are you really the great Petrokoff?" he said, "The Professor of the
Violin known through all Russia! From Moscow? Even the gypsies have
heard of you!"
The Professor lifted his fingers to his lips and blew on them as if to
warm the ends, which were flat and stubbed from much playing on the
strings: "Humph!" he said, "You are only a boy! You are talented, it
is true; but what do you know of violinists? You ought to be studying."
"That is true, Bárin," said Velasco humbly. "I am only a poor gypsey;
I know nothing!"
"Let me see your hand and your arm," said Petrokoff, "Yes, the shape is
excellent; the muscles are good. You need training of course. If you
come to the Conservatory at Moscow, I may be able to procure for you a
scholarship for one of my classes."
"Ah, Bárin--your Excellence, how kind you are!" murmured the gypsey.
"I should like it above all things! Would the Bárin teach me himself?"
"Certainly," said Petrokoff loftily, "Certainly; but you would have to
pass an examination. Your bowing, for instance, is bad! You should
hold your arm so, and your wrist like this."
"Like this?" murmured Velasco, curving his wrist first in one way, then
in another. "That is indeed difficult, Bárin."
"Give the bow to me," said Petrokoff, "Now, let me show you! I am very
particular about that with all my pupils. There--that is better."
The gypsey brushed a lock from his eyes and took up the bow carefully,
as if he were handling an egg with the shell broken. "Ah--so?" he
said, "Of course! And can you play with your wrist like that, Bárin?"
Petrokoff stretched out his hand and took the violin from the gypsey's
arms: "Give it to me," he said, "You notice how limpid, how rich the
tone! That comes from the method. You will learn it in time; the
secret lies in the bowing, the way the wrist is held--so!"
Velasco opened his eyes wide: "Oh, how clumsy I am in comparison!" he
said wistfully. "Your scale, Bárin! I never heard such a scale." He
gave a swift glance over his shoulder at his companion with a low
whistle of astonishment.
"Your comrade seems to be choking," said one of the ladies, "I never
heard any one cough so. Is he consumptive?"
"No--no!" said the gypsey. "It is probably a crumb of bread gone the
wrong way; or the dust blown about by the dancing. He will recover.
Bárin--now tell me, do I hold the elbow right?"
"Not at all. The arm must be--so!"
"Ah--so?"
"That is better."
The gypsey ran his fingers over the strings in exact imitation of
Petrokoff. The tone was thin, and his fingers moved stiffly as if
weighted. His face wore an anxious expression. "Dear me!" he
exclaimed, "It is more difficult than I imagined. Does every violinist
hold his bow like that?"
Petrokoff cleared his throat and his chest swelled a little under his
coat. "Bradjaga, I have taught the violin for twenty-five years--there
is no other way."
The gypsey sighed. "My own way is so much simpler," he said, "Look!"
His fingers flew over the neck of the Stradivarius in harmonics, swift
and sure as the flight of a hawk; his bow seemed to leap in his hand,
and when he reached the top note of all, high, clear and sweet, he
trilled on it softly, swelling out into a tone pure and strange like
the sighing of wind in the tree-tops. The hair fell over his brows,
and for a moment there was silence in the room.
Kaya had stopped coughing; she had clapped one hand over her mouth to
still the sound, and her blue eyes were fixed on one of the ladies, who
was staring hard at the gypsey. They were listening intently.
Petrokoff stood with his hands clasped over his waistcoat, his head a
little to one side, nodding gently from time to time, as if listening
to a pupil in his class room.
"Yes," he began, "as I said before, you have talent. I think I could
make something of you; but your bowing is bad, very bad; your method is
abominable! It would never be allowed in the Conservatory; and your
harmonics--bah!"
He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his fat fingers in disgust. "Give
me the violin again; it is too good an instrument for a boy. If you
come to Moscow, I will give you two hundred roubles, just out of
charity. The instrument isn't worth the half, as you know. But I have
a good heart, I am interested in your progress. With the two hundred
roubles you can pay for your lodging and food. The harmonics--listen!
They should sound like this."
He played a few notes on the top of the instrument, shrill and sharp.
The gypsey stretched out his arms eagerly.
"Let me try, Bárin!" he cried, "So--so?"
The harmonics seemed to squeak in derision; they flatted, and the sound
was like the wheels of a cart unoiled.
"Stop!" cried Petrokoff, "It is horrible! For the love of heaven,
Bradjaga, stop!"
The gypsey drew the bow slowly and lingeringly over the flatted notes.
It was like the wail of a soul in inferno; a shriek like a devil
laughing.
"Ha-ha!" cried Velasco. "Now I understand! That is what you were
after, Bárin?"
Petrokoff eyed him sharply.
The boy's face was the picture of innocence; the mouth was slightly
puckered as if with concentrated effort; his eyes were open and frank;
he was smiling a little triumphantly like a child that is sure of
pleasing and waiting for praise.
"You play atrociously," said Petrokoff severely. "I shall keep you six
months on finger exercises alone. You play false!"
The light died out of the boy's face:
"Bárin," he said humbly, "In Moscow you will teach me to play like
yourself. I am nothing but an ignorant bradjaga as you see."
Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and began to cough: "The dust!"
he said, "It has gone to my throat all at once. Eh--what? Excuse me a
moment, Bárin."
Kaya's yellow curls were close to his ear and she whispered something.
She was standing behind his chair and, as she stooped to him, her hand
rested on his shoulder and trembled slightly: "Velasco," she said, in a
voice like a breath, "Come, I beseech you! You are playing with
danger, with death! They will surely suspect; ah, come!"
The gypsey tossed his head, like a young horse when some one is trying
to force the bit between his teeth; his chin stiffened and an obstinate
look came into his eyes. He brushed her aside: "No," he murmured, "Go
away, Kaya! He is a stupid fool, can't you see? I am not half
through; it is heavenly to hear him! Go--go! I want to tease him some
more; I tell you I will."
The younger gypsey sank back on the floor cross-legged, half hidden by
the chair and the form of Velasco. Her hands were still trembling and
she put them in the pockets of her jacket, trying to force her red lips
to a whistle; but no sound came through the arch. She heard the voice
of Velasco smooth, and wicked, and humble, just above her.
"There is a musician," he was saying, "Perhaps you have heard of him?
His name is Velasco."
"Bosh!" said Petrokoff in an angry tone, and then he blew his nose
loudly. "Velasco--bosh! He is only a trickster! There is a fad
nowadays among the ladies to run after him." He bowed to the three
ladies in turn mockingly, "My friends here tried to get tickets last
week in St. Petersburg, but the house was sold out. Bosh--I tell you!
I wouldn't cross the street to hear a virtuoso like that!"
The gypsey gave a queer sound like a chuckle: "He does not play as you
do, of course, Bárin!"
"I!" cried Petrokoff. He twirled his mustache fiercely. "The Russians
are like children, they run after every new plaything. The Pole is a
new plaything, a toy--bah! I have been before the public twenty-five
years. I am an artist; I am one of the old School. I--"
"Go away, Kaya!" whispered Velasco, "This is grand! I haven't enjoyed
myself so much for an age. Go away, little one; don't be frightened.
It is all right, only don't cough too much, or the ladies will see you
are laughing.
"Ah, Velasco, come--come!"
"Go away, child! He is opening his mouth again, the fat monster!
Watch the 'I' leap out! If he plays again I shall die in a fit; he
handles the bow like the fin of a shark. Be still, Kaya--go!"
"Velasco--listen, won't you listen? The ladies--ah, don't turn your
head away--the one with the grey bonnet is the Countess Galli. I have
seen her often at my father's house, Velasco; and she stares first at
me, then at you. She suspects."
"The fright, with the long nose?"
"Yes, and the pince-nez."
"She is staring now. Make up a face at her, Kaya; that will scare her
away. She has never seen you in boy's clothes before, I warrant, with
your hands in your pockets, and your curls clipped short, and a cap on
the back of your head--ha ha!"
"Velasco, don't laugh. Don't you see she is whispering to Petrokoff
now and looking at us through her pince-nez?"
"So she is, the vixen, the miserable gossip! Slip out towards the door
quietly, Kaya, while they are talking. I will follow directly. Wait
at the back of the stable by the hay loft."
The gypsey stood up suddenly and approached the little group of ladies,
bowing to them and to Petrokoff. He was wrapping the violin in its
cover and laying it away in its case as he moved. "Pardon, Bárin," he
said softly, "If you will wait for me here, I shall return presently.
My supper is waiting. Perhaps after an hour you will still like to
purchase the violin. See, it is really not a bad instrument--if you
are in earnest about the two hundred roubles?"
Petrokoff stepped eagerly forward. "Now," he said, "Give it to me now.
I will hand you the money at once in notes."
"Presently, Bárin," said Velasco still softly, "I will return directly.
If your Excellency will permit--"
He slipped past the outstretched arm of the musician; bowed again to
the lady in the grey bonnet, staring straight into the gold-rimmed
lorgnette; and the door closed behind him. Running like a grey-hound,
Velasco darted through the corridor and around by the side of the inn
to the stable. It was dark there, deserted, and beyond, the snow
glittered on the meadows.
"Kaya--are you there?"
"Here, Velasco."
"Have you the knapsack?"
"Yes--yes, here it is."
"Take my hand then and run--run, Kaya, for the Countess has told
Petrokoff; she has told him by now. They'll be hot on our tracks!
This way--to the left of the road! Hold fast to my hand and run,
Kaya--run!"
"I will, Velasco, I will!"
"Don't fall--don't stumble!"
"I won't! Which way? I can't see the road."
"Ahead, straight ahead! Hold me faster! Leap as I leap--and if you
hear hoofs, sink down in the shadow."
"Yes--yes, Velasco!"
"Ah, run, dearest--run, for the fiends are behind us! I hear hoofs and
bells. Run--run!"
[1] The devil take you.