moon-light.-- Snare me another Brünnhilde, can't you?" The great
tenor laughed and put his finger to his lips: "Singing with the Lehmann
spoils one," he said, "Bah--! It was frightful to-night! She grows
always worse. Would the bird were a goddess instead." He waved his
hand: "Good-night!"
"Good-night," said the Kapellmeister, hurrying on.
"Ritter--hey! Stop a moment! What has come over the Neumann?"
"Nothing, Jacobs--nothing! She is dead."
Mime straightened his back that was stiff from much crouching:
"Ausgeworfen?"
"Ja wohl."
"Then who is the lark?"
"An improvement you think--eh?"
The singer laughed: "The way Perron jumped! Did you see him? With the
first note he gaped open-mouthed into the branches, and came within an
ace of dropping his sword. I chuckled aloud in the wings. Who is she,
Kapellmeister?"
"Good-night--good-night!" cried Ritter, "excuse me, but I am late and
in a hurry. This opera conducting is frightfully wearing; I am limp as
a rag. Good-night!" he ran on.
The doors of the dressing-rooms stood open, and he peered into them,
one after the other. In some the electric light was still on, and the
costumes were scattered about on the open trunks. The principals were
gone already, and most of the chorus; and the men of the orchestra went
hurrying by like shadows, with their instruments under their arms. In
the House itself, behind the asbestos curtain, which was lowering
slowly, came the sound of seats swinging back, and the voices of the
ushers as they rushed to and fro.
"Kaya!" called the Kapellmeister softly, "Where are you?" He hurried
from room to room.
The dressing-room of Madame Schultz was on the second floor, up a
short, winding stair-case, and the lights were turned low. Ritter
paused in the doorway.
The prima-donna was standing before the pier-glass, still in costume;
her soft, white robes trailed over the floor, and her red-blonde hair
hung to her waist. The helmet glittered on her head, and she held her
spear aloft as if about to utter the Walküre cry. The figure was
superb, magnificent; a goddess at bay. And as the Kapellmeister stared
at her in astonishment, he saw that she was tense with emotion.
"Madame," he stammered, "You! You--still here?"
Her face was to the glass, her back to the door; she wheeled about
quickly and faced him: "Yes, I am here!" she cried, "Brünnhilde is
here! The House was cold to me to-night--they clapped Perron. It was
all Siegfried. They would have hissed me if they had dared." The
spear shook in her trembling hand.
"When my voice broke in the top notes, you could hear them whispering
in the loggias; didn't you hear them? 'She is old,' they said, 'she
can't sing any more, or act! She has no business to be here. Get us
another Brünnhilde!' And the stage hands looked at me pityingly. I
saw! Do you think I am blind and deaf as well as old? Look at me as I
stand here! I am Brünnhilde!"
The form of the singer was rigid, drawn to its height; the head thrown
back and the helmet glittering on her red-blonde hair. Her eyes were
proud and scornful.
"Am I not--Brünnhilde?"
"Yes--yes!" cried Ritter, drawing back in a dazed way: "You are
magnificent, Madame. If you had acted like that tonight, you would
have had the House at your feet."
The singer took a step forward. "It is not I," she cried, "It is
Brünnhilde herself! Come, let her sing to you! The scene is still
there on the stage, the rocks and the fir-tree--and Brünnhilde's couch.
The fire motive seethes in my brain, and the flames are springing.
Come--and waken me!"
She grasped his sleeve with her fingers, and drew him: "You are not the
Kapellmeister!" she cried, "You are Siegfried, and you must sing the
part in falsetto. Come!"
Ritter gave a quick glance about. The stage hands were gone, and the
singers. The stage was in semi-darkness, half lighted, and the scene
was unchanged. He could see it from the top of the balustrade. There
was no one in the House behind, or in front, and the foot-lights were
out; only the porter watched below, half asleep and waiting. He was
alone with a mad woman; Brünnhilde gone crazy and frantic with grief
because she was old and her voice was gone. She was dragging at his
hand, and pulling him towards the stair-case. He followed her dumbly.
"Come--come!" she panted, "You think the Schultz has gone mad! No--no!
It is only her youth come back, and her voice is leaping in her throat.
She must sing--must sing! There is the couch. See, I fling myself on
it! I am covered with the shield, and the spear lies beside me. You
have wakened me, Siegfried, with your kiss; and now I raise myself
slowly. I am dazed--I stare blindly about! Hark, how the fire is
leaping and crackling!"
The singer was seated upright now on the couch, and Ritter was standing
helpless beside her. As she acted, the blood ran cold in his veins.
It was true what she had said. She was no longer the Schultz: she was
Brünnhilde herself, the goddess, and the kiss of Siegfried was on her
lips.
She was singing now; she had sprung to her feet with the spear in her
hand, and the music poured from her throat. It was not the voice of
Schultz; it was richer and fuller, and the tones were deep and strong,
and pure and high; and it rang out and filled the empty stage like a
clarion trumpet, silver-toned. She held her hands high above her head,
waving the spear; coming nearer to him and nearer.
"O Siegfried, Herrliche Hort der Welt!
Leben der Erde, lachender Held!"
Her red-blonde hair shone in the light and the helmet glittered:
"Siegfried! Siegfried!"
It was the Lehmann come back! Ah, no--it was more than the Lehmann!
Ritter gazed and listened, and his heart gave a leap. It was
Brünnhilde herself, the goddess come to life; and the stage was no
longer there: it was night on the mountain-top; they were surrounded by
fires crackling and leaping; the flash of flames curling, and light and
smoke. The violins were playing.
Instinctively his fingers clutched the air as if grasping the baton.
"Siegfried!"
The cry came big and passionate as from the throat of a Walküre,
without limit or strain. The Kapellmeister staggered and covered his
eyes.
"Gott!" he cried, "Am I dreaming? Where am I? Madame--stop! Are you
the Schultz, or are you--? I thought you were mad, stark mad; but it
is I--I! When I looked at you now, you were Brünnhilde alive--your
voice is the voice of the goddess herself!"
He sank down on the couch and covered his face with his hands. The
blood rushed to his ears and seethed there, and the music beat against
his brain. Then the faintness passed, and he looked up.
Brünnhilde stood a little apart, still grasping the spear. The light
fell on her helmet, and it shone; her lips were arched as if the tones
were still in her throat, dying away. She was gazing at him and her
breast was panting. The light fell full on her face.
"Ach--mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"
CHAPTER XIX
"Yes, it is I," said Kaya.
She put up both hands, lifting the helmet from her head, and the
red-blonde hair fell back from her short, gold curls. The spear
dropped with a clang to the stage and lay extended between them,
glittering.
"My voice was there," she said softly, "in my throat, leaping and
bounding, and the gate was unbarred." She seemed half afraid, and drew
back in the shadow.
Ritter still sat on the edge of the couch, where Brünnhilde had lain,
and where Siegfried had kissed her. His face had a dazed look, and he
passed his hand over his eyes several times, as if the dusk were too
dim for his sight.
"I thought you were the Schultz gone mad!" he murmured. "Gott! What
an actress you are!"
A laugh came to him out of the darkness.
"You are no bird," said Ritter, "You are a Walküre born. Take the
helmet again and the spear. As you stood in the shadow, gazing
downward, you were like a young warrior watching his shield." He
sprang to his feet and came toward her, placing the spear in her hand,
the helmet again on her head.
"Sing," he said, "Let me hear it again. Your voice is a marvel! The
timbre is silver and the tones are of bronze. Let me look at your
throat! Gott--but the roof of your mouth is arched like a dome and the
passage is as the nave of a cathedral, wide and deep!"
His hand grasped her shoulder, trembling: "Did Helmanoff know you had a
voice like that?" he cried, "Tell me, child, did he train you? The
part is most difficult to act and to sing. Tell me--or am I dreaming
still?"
Kaya fingered the spear dreamily: "My voice is bigger and fuller," she
said; "it came so all of a sudden, but he taught me the part, and he
told me, some day, if I were not a Countess I could become the
Brünnhilde." Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp,
springing forward and crouching:
"You are Wotan and you are angry," she whispered, "The Brünnhilde is
your child and she has sinned. You have threatened her, and now she is
pleading: 'Wotan--Father!'" Her voice rose, and her form shook as
though with sobs. She crept closer, still crouching, and lay at his
feet, and her voice was like something crying and wrestling.
"Hier bin ich Vater: Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstösest mich? Versteh' ich den Sinn?
Nimmst du mir alles was einst du gabst?"
Her voice sobbed, dying away into a tone pure, soft, heart-breaking,
like a breath; yet it penetrated and filled the stage, the wings, and
came echoing back.
"Hier bin ich Vater; Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstösest mich?"
For a moment she lay as if exhausted; then she covered her head with
her hands as if fearing and trembling: "Now curse me," she whispered,
"Curse me! I hear the flames now beginning to crackle!"
The Kapellmeister put out his hand and took hers, and lifted her: "If
the House were full," he said, "and you acted like that, they would go
stark mad; they would shower bouquets at your feet and carry you on
their shoulders. The Lehmann was the great Brünnhilde, but you are
greater, Kaya. Your voice has the gift of tears. When you let it out,
one is thrilled and shaken, and there is no end to the glory and power;
it encircles one as with a wreath of tones. But when you lower it
suddenly and breathe out the sound--child--little one, what have you
suffered to sing like that? You are young. What must you have
suffered!"
He clasped her hands tenderly between his own, and stared down into her
eyes.
"Don't touch me," she said brokenly, "I told you--there is blood on
them! I am cursed like Brünnhilde. The curse is in my voice and you
hear it, and it is that that makes you tremble and shudder--just as I
tremble and shudder--at night--when I dream, and I see the body beside
me on the floor--and the red pool--widening. Helmanoff used to tell me
my voice was cold and pure like snow; there was no feeling, no warmth,
no abandon. You see--if I have learned it, it is not Helmanoff who has
taught me--but suffering."
Her eyes were like two fires burning, and she put her hand to her
throat. "To have the gift of tears you must have shed them," she
whispered, looking at him strangely: "You must have--shed them."
"Is it the curse alone," said the Kapellmeister, "that keeps you and
Velasco apart, little one? Forgive me! Don't start like that!
Don't--don't tremble."
Kaya backed away from him, snatching away her hands. Her lips were
quivering and her eyes half closed. "Ah--" she breathed, "You are
cruel. Take the spear and strike me, but don't prod a wound that is
open and will not--heal! Have you no wound of your own hidden that you
must needs bare mine?"
"It is love that has taught you," said the Kapellmeister, "You love
him--Velasco!"
She gave a low moan and flung her arms up, covering her face.
The Kapellmeister stared at her for a moment. The stage was dark, and
only a bulb of light, here and there, gleamed in the distance. Below,
the watchman was pacing the corridor, waiting, and the smell of his
pipe came up through the wings. The scenery looked grim and ghostly;
the couch of Brünnhilde lay bare. Above were ropes and machinery
dangling, and darkness.
He clinched his teeth suddenly and a sound escaped him, half a cry,
half a groan; but smothered, as though seized and choked back. "Come,"
he said. He went to her roughly and took the helmet from her head, and
the shield, and the spear; she standing there heedless with her arms
across her face. They fell to the floor with a crash, first one, then
the other, and the sound was like a blow, repeating itself in loud
echoes.
"Go and take off your things," he said hurriedly, "It is
midnight--past, and the watchman is waiting to lock the stage door.
Rouse yourself--go! I will wait for you here."
He heard the sound of her footsteps crossing the stage, ascending the
stair-case; and he walked backwards and forwards, forwards and
backwards, in and out among the rocks and the trees. His forehead was
scarred with lines, and his shoulders were bent. The look of the
victorious General about him had changed into the look of one who has
met the enemy face to face, and has fought with his strength and his
might, and been beaten, with his forces slain and a bullet in his
breast.
His eyes were fierce and his face set, his feet stumbled; he was white
as death and weary. He heard her coming back and he walked on,
backwards and forwards, without looking or heeding.
"Have you your cloak?"
"Yes."
"An umbrella?"
"No."
"It is raining. Don't you hear it, and the thunder in the distance?
The storm has broken. Come, we will take a cab." He strode across the
stage and down the staircase; she following. He nodded to the watchman:
"Still rehearsing," he said shortly, "Sorry to keep you up. Whistle,
will you, for a Droschke? Gott! The rain is terrific; hear it! Come."
There was the sound of wheels, of horses' hoofs.
He went forward and opened the door of the Droschke, and Kaya crept in.
She was no longer the Brünnhilde; she was a little figure, slight and
pale, and wrapped in a cloak; and she sat in the corner against the
cushions, staring out at the rain, quivering at the thunder crashes.
Ritter stepped in behind her and closed the door. "Nonnen-Mühle!" he
cried, "and drive fast. We are chilled to the bone! The storm grows
worse; it is devilish late!" He flung himself back in the opposite
corner, and the Droschke rolled on.
It was still in the carriage. From outside came the sound of the rain
falling, and the hoofs of the horses trotting. Kaya shut her eyes.
The rhythmical sound caught her senses. She was in St. Petersburg
again, and driving in the darkness through the night and the storm; and
Velasco was beside her--Velasco! They were driving to the church to
be--married.
"Don't do that again," cried the Kapellmeister fiercely, "I can't bear
it."
"W--what?"
"You moaned."
Kaya crept closer into the corner, and clasped the cloak to her breast
and throat.
"It is like seeing a bird with a shot in its breast--in torture," he
said, "And when you sing, it is like a swan song. Your soul is on your
lips, crying out, imploring.--Kaya!"
He bent over the shrinking form in the corner: "I was brutal to you; my
heart was sore, seeing you suffer. The words came out like a lash;
they cut you. I saw how they hurt you. Little one--if I bare the
wound to the air again, forgive me--forgive me! No--don't shrink away.
If you love him like that, my God--I know him! He comes to my house!
Only a few weeks ago he was there, and he's coming again; soon, I tell
you, soon. I swear I will bring him to you! If he won't come, I will
force him; with my hands I will drag him if he refuses."
The girl gave a cry: "Drag him!" she cried, "Force him! Ah, he'd fly
at a word--he'd fly to me!" She caught her breath: "Bózhe moi!" she
said suddenly, and laughed: "What are you talking about, dear Master?
Velasco--he's nothing to me! A musician, you said--a violinist! You
forget I am Brünnhilde to-night. We talked of a curse--not love.
Siegfried is still behind the flames and cannot get past."
She laughed again, a sound like a trill: "You forget, don't you?" she
said, "I was acting a part! It wasn't real; I was only
playing--pretending. How the Schultz cheated you! Ah, dear
Master--you thought she had lost her wits and her size all at once.
You never noticed how she had shrunken; and that was because I stood on
tip-toe, and held myself straight with the helmet. If the light hadn't
fallen full on my face, you would never have guessed! I laughed to
myself; how I laughed! I--laughed!"
"Child," said the Kapellmeister suddenly. "You are sobbing!"
"I am not--I am laughing, dear Master. Look at me! There is the mill
across the promenade. How gaunt the wheel looks, and strange, with its
spokes dripping, and the rain lashing down! And there is a light in my
window--a candle, see? Old Marta is waiting, and how she will scold.
Tell me, Master--dear Master, before we get there, tell me--some day
may I act Brünnhilde and sing, when the curtain is up, and the House is
full, and Siegfried is there, and you at the baton--and the orchestra
playing? Tell me!"
She drew closer to him, and the last words came out in a whisper,
breathless and eager. "Put those other thoughts out of your mind, dear
Kapellmeister. Ve--Velasco is only a name--nothing more!
"If I can sing I will be happy; I promise you. The sting of the curse
will--pass. You are silent and cold!" she cried, "You won't tell me,
and we are almost there--at the mill! Master!"
The Kapellmeister started: "The mill?" he stammered, "What were you
saying, Kaya? How cold your hand is, little one! Of course you shall
sing. You shall be our great Brünnhilde and the visitors will flock to
Ehrestadt, and you will be famous and beloved."
He hesitated: "I can't see you, only your eyes gleaming, Kaya. How
bright they are, little one, like live coals! Where did you get that
name--'Master'? Did Marta teach you? My pupils say that, the chorus,
the orchestra, and the singers; but you never used it before. It is
because I am old now and my hair is grey, and you are a child. I must
seem to you like your father, Kaya."
"No," said the girl quickly, "not my father! He was hard and cruel; he
was a friend of the Tsar. I--I never loved him."
"Nor me," cried the Kapellmeister hoarsely, "Nor me!"
The words sprang to his lips in spite of himself; they were low, and he
thought she did not hear; but her ear was keen. She bent forward
taking his hand, and kissed it swiftly, holding it between her own.
"Dear Kapellmeister! Dear Master!" she cried, half laughing, half with
a sob: "You know I love you. When I was ill and alone, and desperate,
and helpless, longing to die, you came to me. You saved me and helped
me; and I was nothing to you but a stranger. You were father and
mother to me; and now, you are my master, and teacher, and friend."
She lifted his hand again to her lips and caressed it: "I love you,"
she cried, "dear Master, I love you with all my heart!"
Ritter stirred against the cushions; his hand lay limp in her clasp.
"Yes, little one," he said, "Yes. Your heart is like your voice,
fathomless and pure. The carriage has stopped now, and there is the
candle, burning up yonder under the eaves. Can you find your way
alone, without help? I am strangely weary."
His voice was low, and the words came slowly, with an effort. He
passed his hand over his face:
"Good-night--Brünnhild'!"
He held her hands and drew her towards him: "Good-night, little one.
There are shadows under your eyes, and your lip quivers; you are
pale.--Good-night." He held her for a moment in a strong grasp,
staring down into her face; then she was gone and the door closed
behind her. His hands were empty, and the horses had turned, and were
galloping back through the rain and the night.
CHAPTER XX
It was dusk, and the lights of the Rathskeller began to twinkle out one
by one. The Keller was long and rambling, divided into innumerable
small alcoves and corners, partitioned by strange and antique carvings.
The ceiling was low, with octagonal vaults like a cloister. On the
smoke-grimed walls, here and there, were mural paintings of knights in
armour, and fat peasants drinking, dimmed and half obliterated.
Beneath were legends and proverbs, printed in quaint, old-German
characters; while across one end, like a frieze, ran a ledge carven
with gargoyles, rude and misshapen. On the ledge were beer mugs of
every size and description, with queer tops and crooked handles.
Above, suspended from the ceiling by chains, hung a huge Fass; and from
the throats of the gargoyles, dragon and devil alike, dripped the beer,
turned on by small taps hidden.
In and out, among the tables, sped the waitresses in their Tyrolese
costume with its picturesque head-dress; and beyond lay the garden,
innumerable bulbs of light gleaming like fire-flies among the trees.
"Bitte um zwei Münchener!"
"Sogleich, meine Herren."
"Ein Chartreuse und ein Pilsener!"
"Jawohl! Sofort!"
And the waitresses sped, vying with one another, coquetting with their
patrons, smiling gayly with sharp retorts; their eyes bright, their
trays laden with foaming beer mugs.
In one of the alcoves, far back in the shadow, sat two gentlemen. The
younger had removed his hat, and was pushing the hair impatiently back
from his brows. His eyes were dark and sleepy, half covered by the
brows, weighed down by the lids.
He was leaning on one elbow and responded languidly to his companion,
half heeding, toying with his hands, and strumming on the table with
his fingers, which were white, and supple, and full of magnetism.
Beside him lay a violin.
"You are nervous to-night, Velasco?"
"I am always nervous."
"What shall we eat and drink?"
"Donnerwetter--what you please! If I eat, I cannot play. Bring me
some of that Rhine wine, Fräulein, the white in the slanting bottles,
and a plate of Pretzeln. No beer--bewahre!"
The Musician raised his hands with a shrug of his shoulders, and then
sank back in his former listless attitude.
"That is your Polish taste, Velasco. Try a bit of Schinken with me, or
a Stückchen of Cervelat with cheese--eh? If you eat, you will be less
nervous, and your fingers will become warm. When you play, you are
abstinent as a priest before the mass."
The older man smoothed his beard, which was fast turning grey, and
lifted the beer mug to his lips.
"Ich danke!" said Velasco with irony: "My dear Kapellmeister, I am not
as those who would serve Art with a bottle of champagne under each arm.
I want no fumes in my brain and no clod between my fingers when I meet
the Muse face to face."
"You are right there," said Ritter thoughtfully, lowering his glass:
"It is like a pearl coming out of the throat of a swine to hear the
tones from Bauermann's fingers, when he can scarce keep himself at the
pianoforte, and his head rocks between his shoulders like a top
falling. His sense of beauty is all that is left of him, and that
seems over ripe, like a fruit left too long in the sun. Materialism is
the artist's curse. Their heads are in the clouds and their feet are
in the slough.--Pah!"
The Kapellmeister tapped his glass sharply with the edge of his knife,
and called without turning: "Hey--a Münchener, Fräulein!"
He scanned the face of his companion curiously. The Violinist seemed
to be dreaming; he held the Rhine wine in his hand, gazing down into
its liquid gold as if a vision lay at the bottom of the glass.
"Velasco!"
The Musician half raised his lids and then lowered them again.
"Are you asleep, Velasco?"
"Potztausend--no! I hear what you say! You speak of musicians and
swine in the same breath. It is true. You ought to know, who wave the
baton over them year in and year out. They rise like a balloon and
then they fall--!"
He dropped his hands on the table with an expressive gesture. "They
give out through the senses; they take in the same way." He lifted the
glass, staring into it again: "But it is not through pleasure, not
pleasure, Ritter, never pleasure, that their senses are developed, and
they learn to feel, and give back what they have felt. They think it
is pleasure, and they fall into the error, and their art dies within
them sooner or later. It is like some fell thing clutching at their
feet, and when they try to rise, it seizes them and drags them back,
and they sink finally--they sink!"
The Kapellmeister leaned forward on the table, scanning the young face
opposite him: "A year ago, Velasco, your chin was round and full; from
the look of your mouth one could tell that you had lived and enjoyed.
You were like the Faun, happy and careless, and your art was to you
like a plaything. You cared only for your Stradivarius, and when you
were not playing, you were nothing, not even a man. All your genius
was concentrated there in your brows where the music lies hidden. Your
virility was in your tones, and your strength in your fingers. What
has come over you?"
"Am I changed?" said Velasco. His throat contracted. He held the
glass to his lips, but he did not drink.
The Kapellmeister gazed at him strangely: "Yes, you are changed.
In one year you have grown ten. What it is I cannot tell, but the look
of your face is different. The mouth has grown rugged and harsh; there
are lines under your eyes, and your lips are firm, not full. It is as
if a storm had burst on a young birch, and torn it from its bank amid
the grass and the heather, and an oak had grown up in its place,
brought into life by the wind and the gale."
Velasco tossed off the Moselle and laughed bitterly: "I have done with
pleasure," he said, "I have lived and I know life; that is all. There
is nothing in it but work and music."
"Tell me, Velasco," said the Kapellmeister slowly, "Don't be offended
if I ask, or think that I am trying to pry into your affairs. When you
were rehearsing this morning it occurred to me.--There was something
new in the quality of your tone. Before, you were a virtuoso; your
technique was something to gaze at and harken to, and there was no
technique like it in Europe; now--"
"Well--now?" cried Velasco, "Was I clumsy this morning? Was anything
the matter? Potztausend!--why didn't you tell me?"
His eyes gleamed suddenly under his brows and he twirled his fingers,
toying with them nervously. "Gott--Kapellmeister! Why didn't you tell
me at once?"
"Now--" said the Kapellmeister: He looked up at the Bierfass, hanging
by its chains, and his gaze wandered slowly over the legends on the
wall, the gargoyles dripping; the mugs with their quaint tops and their
handles twisted, the roof in its octagonal vaults, smoky, begrimed; and
then back again to the table, and the flask before Velasco, yellow and
slanting.
"Now--" he said, "you are no longer a virtuoso, you are an artist, and
that, as you know, is something infinitely greater and higher and more
difficult of attainment. All the great violins of my time I have
heard; most of them I have conducted."
Ritter's voice lowered suddenly to a whisper, and he leaned forward,
touching the other's hand with his own: "I tell you, Velasco, and I
know what I say--you played to-day at rehearsal as none of them played,
not even Sarasati, king of virtuosi; or Joachim, prince of artists.
You played as if the violin were yourself, and your bow were tearing
your own heart strings. . . . Don't move! Don't get up! What is it,
Velasco? You are white as death and your eyes are staring! Listen to
my question and answer it, or not, as you please. This is not an age
of miracles. The birch was not torn from the bank without reason, or
the oak transplanted. Tell me--have you ever loved a woman?"
There was a sudden silence in the Rathskeller. It was almost deserted,
and the waitresses were all in the garden, running forward and backward
under the trees. From outside came the sound of voices and glasses
clinking; and close by, from the ledge, the slow trickle of the beer
through the throats of the gargoyles.
"Look at them!" said Velasco dreamily: "It is the Pilsener that runs
through the dragons' mouths, and the Münchener through the devils'; a
bizarre fancy that!"
He stooped and struck a match against the table edge, lighting his
cigarette. "These are Russian, Kapellmeister, extra brand! Try one!
I prefer them to Turkish myself." He leaned his head against the
carvings of the partition, and drew the smoke in through his nostrils
slowly, his eyes half closed.
"It is a quarter to eight now," said Ritter, "but there is plenty of
time.--I shouldn't have asked that question perhaps, Velasco. Forgive
me. My own affairs have turned my thoughts too much on that subject."
"Was it several years ago?" said Velasco, "I don't remember." He
passed his hand over his forehead several times as if chafing his
memory.
Ritter pushed away his plate, and leaned forward with his head on his
hands, staring down at the table, and tracing out the pattern of the
wood with his fingers.
"Fourteen years to-night, Velasco. I have never spoken of it to any
one; but somehow to-night it would be a relief to talk. Brondi was
staying at my house; he was the Tristan. One night he gave out he was
ill, and some one else took the part. When I returned from the opera,
he was gone and she was gone, and the house was dark and deserted."
Ritter was silent for a moment.
"Fourteen years to-night, Velasco, and I feel as if it were yesterday."
The Violinist shaded his eyes from the light as if it hurt him: "When
you came back," he said, "When you found out--what was it you felt,
love or hate?"
The Kapellmeister made a swift, repelling gesture as if some reptile
had touched him: "Love!" he cried, "Hate! Velasco--man, there is many
a sin at my door; I am far from a saint heaven knows; but to deceive
one who has trusted--to desert one who has loved and been loyal! God!
There is no worse crime than that, or more despicable! Can one love,
or hate, where there is only contempt?"
He clenched his fist, and his eyes were like two sword points boring
into the face opposite.
"Contempt--" he said, "It has eaten into my heart like a poisonous drug
and killed all else. There is nothing left."
The Kapellmeister took a long breath, then he continued hoarsely: "But
I am a man; with a woman it is different. Her heart is young and she
knows nothing of the world. It is like a stab in the dark from a hand
she loves, and her heart is torn. If she is brave, facing the world
with a smile on her lips, she bleeds inwardly. She is like a swan,
swooping in circles lower and lower, with a song in her throat, until
the great wings droop, and the eyes grow dim, and she falls finally,
and the song is stilled. But the last beat of her heart and the last
echo of her voice is for him--for him who fired the shot in her breast!"
He half rose in his seat with his hands trembling, and then sank back
again.
"Have you ever loved a woman and left her, Velasco? Tell me--have you
a deed like that on your conscience?"
"I--?" The Musician laughed aloud and took his hand from his face:
"You are talking in riddles, Kapellmeister! The beer has gone to your
head, and you are drunk! Look at the clock over yonder!-- What is
love? A will-o'-the-wisp! You chase it and it eludes you; you clasp
it and it melts into air! There is nothing in life, I tell you, but
music and work."
He poured out another glass of the wine: "Here's to your health,
Kapellmeister! Prosit--my friend! Put those grim thoughts from your
mind, and women from your heart. We must be off."
He was quaffing the liquor at a gulp.
"Prosit, Kapellmeister!"
Ritter made no answer. He sat staring moodily down at the table. "You
are young, Velasco, to be bitter. Is it music, or work, that has
carven those lines in your face?"
There was a sting in his voice.
The Violinist threw back his head like a horse at the touch of the
spur. His eyes blazed defiantly at the Kapellmeister for a moment, and
then the light went out of them as flame from a coal. The glass fell
from his hand and lay shattered in fragments on the floor. He stood
looking down at them wearily:
"That is my life," he said, "It is broken like the glass; and the wine
is my love. There is nothing left of it but a stain. It has gone from
me and is dead. Come!"
He lifted his violin, and the two men took their hats and went out,
side by side, silently, without speaking.
The room was empty. Slowly from the throats of the gargoyles trickled
the beer; and the Fass was like a great shadow hung from the ceiling by
its chains. From outside came the clamour of voices and laughter, and
the waitresses sped to and fro. The lights twinkled gayly under the
spreading of the leaves, and the glasses clinked.
CHAPTER XXI.
The Friedrichs-Halle was old and shabby and had originally been a
market. The entrance was under an arcade, and there was an underground
passage, connecting the green-room with the stage-door of the Opera
House; a passage narrow and ill-smelling, without windows or light; but
dear to the hearts of musicians by reason of its associations.
Mendelssohn had walked there, and Schumann, and Brahms; and the air, as
it could not be changed, was the same. The very microbes were musical,
and the walls were smudged with snatches of motives, jotted down for
remembrance.
"Is there a seat left in the top gallery--just one?"
"Standing room only, Madame."
The ticket-seller, who sat in a box-like room under the arcade, handed
out a slip of green paste-board, and then shut the window with a slam.
The gesture of his hand expressed the fact that his business was now
over. Standing room also had ceased, and the long line of people
waiting turned away with muttered exclamations.
The foyer was like an ant-hill in commotion; people running forwards
and backwards, trying vainly to bribe an entrance, until the noise was
like hornets buzzing; while from behind came the sound of the orchestra
tuning, faint raspings of the cellos, and the wails of the wood-winds,
and above them the cry of a trumpet muffled.
Kaya took the green paste-board hastily in her hand, clasping it, as if
afraid it might in some way be snatched from her, and sped up the
narrow stone stairway to the right, running fast until her breath
failed her. Still another turn, and another flight, and she stood in
the Concert Hall, high up under the roof, where the students go, and
the air is warm and heavy, and the stage looks far away. The gallery
was crowded.
On the stage the orchestra were assembling, still tuning occasionally
here and there where an instrument was refractory. The scores lay open
and ready on the desks. A hum of excitement was over the House, and
one name was on every lip: "Velasco!"--the Polish violinist, the
virtuoso, the artist, whose fame had spread over all Europe.
In Berlin he had had a furore; in Dresden the orchestra had carried him
on their shoulders, shouting and hurrahing; in Leipzig, even Leipzig,
where the critics are cold, and they have been fed music from their
cradles, the glory of him had taken them all by storm.
"Velasco!"
The orchestra stood quietly now, expectant, each behind his desk. A
hush crept over the House. The people leaned forward watching. It was
past the hour.
Kaya stood wrapped in her cloak, leaning against the wall. Her head
was bare, and her hair was like a boy's, curling in rings and shining
in the light. Her eyes were fixed on the little door at the end of the
stage. Every time it opened slightly she started, and her heart gave a
throb. The air grew heavier.
When it finally opened, it was Ritter who came out. He strode hastily
across the Stage, nodding shortly as if aware that the ripple of
applause was not for him; then he took his place on the Conductor's
stand with his back to the House, and waited, the baton between his
fingers. The door opened again.
Kaya covered her eyes for a moment, and a little thrill went through
her veins. She swayed and leaned heavily against the wall.
God! It was seven months and a day since that night in the inn. She
was in his arms again, and he was bending over her, whispering
hoarsely, his voice full of repressed anger and emotion:
"Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms! The gods only know why you
said it, but it isn't the truth! You love me--say you love me; say it,
Kaya! Let me hear you, my beloved!"
He was pressing his lips to hers.
"Take away your lips--Velasco!"
Then she recovered herself with a start, and took her hand from her
eyes.
The door was ajar. Velasco was coming through it carelessly,
gracefully, with his violin under his arm; and as he came, he bowed
with a half smile on his lips, tossing his hair from his brow.
The audience was nothing to him; they were mere puppets, and as they
shouted and clapped, welcoming him with their lips and their hands, he
bowed again, slightly, indifferently, and laid the Stradivarius to his
shoulder, caressing the bow with his fingers.
Ritter struck the desk sharply with his baton and the orchestra began
to play, drowning the applause; and it ceased gradually, dying away
into silence.
Then Velasco raised his bow.
There was a hush, a stillness in the air, and he drew it over the
strings--one tone, deep and pure with a rainbow of colours, shading
from fortissimo, filling the House, to the faintest piano--pianissimo,
delicate, elusive; breathing it out, and pressing on the string with
his finger until it penetrated the air like an echo, and the bow was
still drawing slowly, quiveringly.
He swayed as he played, laying his cheek to the violin; the waves of
dark hair falling over his brows. His fingers danced over the strings,
and his bow began to leap and sparkle. The audience listened
spellbound, without a whisper or movement. The orchestra accompanied,
but the sound of the violins in unison was as nothing to the single cry
of the Stradivarius.
It sang and soared, it was deep and soft; it was like the sighing of
the wind through the forest, and the tones were like a voice. From his
instrument, his bow, his fingers, himself, went out a strange, mesmeric
influence that seemed to stretch over the House, the audience, bending
it, forcing it to his will; compelling it to his mood.
As he played on and on, the influence grew stronger, more pervading,
until his personality was as a giant and the audience pigmies at his
feet, sobbing as his Stradivarius sobbed; laughing when it laughed;
crying out with joy, or with pain, with frenzy or delight, as his bow
rent the strings. He scarcely heeded them. His eyes were closed and
he rocked the violin in his arms, swaying as in a trance.
Kaya crouched against the wall; and as she listened, she gazed until it
seemed as if her eyes were blinded, and she could no longer make out
the slim lines of his figure, the dark head, and the bow leaping.
The tones struck against her brain with a thrill of concussion like
hail against a roof. It was as if he were calling to her, pleading
with her, embracing her.
She stretched out her arms to him and the tears ran down her face.
"Velasco!" she murmured, "Velasco--come back! Put your arms around me!
Don't look at me like that! I love you--come back!"
But no sound left her throat, and the cloak pinioned her arms. She was
crouching against the wall, and gazing and trembling: "Velasco--!"
How different he was! When he had played at the Mariínski, and she had
tossed the violets from her loggia, he was a boy, a virtuoso. Life and
fame were before him; and he sprang out on the stage like a young
Apollo, eager and daring. And now-- She searched his face.
There were lines there; shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were
thin. The lower part of his face was like a rock, firm and harsh; and
his brows were heavy and swollen. Before, he had played with his
fingers, and toyed with his art; now he played with his heart and his
soul. His youth was gone; he was a man. He had known life and
suffered.
She stared at him, and her hands were convulsed, clasping one another
under the cloak. An impulse came over her to throw herself from the
gallery at his feet, as she had flung the violets; and she crouched
closer against the wall, clinging to it.
"Velasco!--Velasco!"
A roar went up from the House.
The sound of the clapping was like rain falling; a mighty volume of
sound, deafening, frightening.
Kaya crouched still lower. He had taken the violin from his cheek and
was bowing; his eyes scanned the House with a nonchalant air.
"Bravo--Velasco!"
The people were standing now and stamping, and screaming his name.
They hid him, and she could not see. Kaya leaned forward, her gold
hair gleaming in the light, her eyes fixed.
"Velasco--Velasco!"
Suddenly he started.
He looked up at the gallery and his bow slipped from his hand. He
stared motionless. The first violin stooped and picked up the bow.
"Monsieur--" he whispered, "Monsieur Velasco, are you ill?"
"No--no!" The Violinist passed his hand over his eyes. "No--I am not
ill! It was a vision--an illusion! A trick of the senses! It is gone
now!"
He bowed again mechanically, taking the bow, lifting the violin again
to his cheek. "An illusion!" he muttered: "A trick of the senses!
God, how it haunts me!" He nodded to the Kapellmeister.
They went on.
* * * * * *
"Let me out!" said Kaya, "I am faint--let me out! Let me--out!" She
struggled to the door, through the crowd, pressing her way slowly,
painfully. Her cheeks were white and she was panting.
"Ah--for God's sake! Let me out!"
"Come this way, Velasco, this way through the passage. The din in the
House is terrific--you have driven them mad! Hark to your name, how
they shout it and stamp! They will be rushing to the stage door
presently, as soon as the ushers have turned out the lights and the
hope of your reappearance is gone. No wonder, man--you played like a
god! You were like one inspired! Shall you risk it; or will you come
through to my room in the Opera House, where we can wait and smoke
quietly until the clamour is past?"
"Anywhere, Ritter, only to get away from that horrible noise!" The
Musician covered his ears with his hands and shuddered: "That is the
worst of being an artist--there is no peace, no privacy! The people
consider one a music-box to wind up at their pleasure! A pest on it
all!"
The two men quickened their footsteps, hurrying down the long corridor,
and presently a door shut behind them.
"There--thank heaven!" cried Ritter, "Around to the left now, Velasco,
and then at the top of the stairs is my den. Let me go first and open
the door."
The room was a small one, half filled with the bulk of a grand piano.
About the walls ran shelf after shelf of music; opera scores and
presentation copies in manuscript. A bust of Wagner stood in the
corner, and on the wall behind the pianoforte was a large painting in
sepia, dim, with strong lights and shadows.
The window was open, and below it lay the street, still in the
darkness; above, the heavens were clear and the stars were shining.
Ritter pulled forward an arm-chair and motioned the Musician towards it:
"Sit down, Velasco. Will you have a pipe, or cigar? You look
exhausted, man! This fasting before is too much for you; you are pale
as death. Shall I send out the watchman for food, or shall we wait and
go to the Keller together?"
Velasco nodded and sank back in the chair, covering his eyes with his
hand:
"Is it usual for musicians to go mad?" he said.
"Heavens!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "What are you talking about?
Usual? Of course not! Some do. What is the matter with you, Velasco?
You are overwrought to-night."
"No," he said, "No. When you hear themes in your head, and rhythms
throbbing in your pulses--is that a sign?"
"Behüte! We all have that. After an opera my head goes round like a
buzz-saw, and the motives spring about inside like demons. If that is
all, Velasco, you are not mad. Take a cigarette."
"Thank you, Ritter. Tell me--when you conduct, is it as if force and
power were going from you, oozing away with the music; and you were in
a trance and someone else were wielding the baton, interpreting,
playing on the instruments, not yourself?"
The Kapellmeister shook his head grimly: "Sometimes, Velasco, but not
often; we are not all like you. That is Genius speaking through you."
"Afterwards," continued the Violinist, "it is as if one had had an
illness. To-night I am weary--Bózhe moi! My body is numb, I can
scarcely lift my feet, or my hands; only my nerves are alive, and they
are like electric wires scintillating, jumping. The liquid runs
through my veins like fire! Is that a--?"
"Bewahre--bewahre! You throw yourself into your playing headlong, body
and soul. It wrecks one mentally and physically to listen; how much
more then to play! If you were like others, Velasco, you would drink
yourself to drowsiness and drown those sensations; or else you would
seek pleasure, distraction. When Genius has been with you, guiding
your brain and your fingers, and you are left suddenly with an empty
void, what else can you expect but reaction, nausea of life and of art?
Bewahre, man! That is no madness! It is sanity--normal conditions
returning. You are mad when the Genius is with you, you are mad when
you play; but now--now you are sane; you are like other men, Velasco,
and you don't recognize yourself!"
The Kapellmeister laughed, drawing whiffs from his cigar.
Velasco uncovered his eyes: "You don't understand," he said slowly: "I
see things--I have illusions! It is something that comes and dances
before me as I play, the same thing always. I saw it to-night."
"What sort of thing?"
Velasco stared suddenly at the opposite wall. "What is that painting
there, Ritter?"
"The one over the piano? I bought it in St. Petersburg years ago, when
I was touring: a copy of the Rembrandt in the 'Hermitage.' Don't you
know it?"
"What is it?"
"The Knight with the Golden Helmet' I call it; but it is really a
'Pallas Athene.'"
"The Knight--the Knight with the Golden Helmet! That is no knight--it
is the head of a woman, a girl; look at the oval of the cheek, the
lips, the eyes! That is no knight, nor is it a 'Pallas Athene'!-- My
God! I am going mad, I tell you! Wherever I look, I see it before
me--an illusion, a trick of the senses! It is madness!"
Velasco sprang to his feet with a cry. "I can't bear it," he cried,
"open the door! Damn you, Ritter, get out of the way!"
Velasco sprang forward, struggling for a moment with the Kapellmeister,
and then Ritter fell back. The clutch on his shoulder was like iron.
He fell back, and the door slammed.
"Potztausend!" he cried, "What is there in my painting to start him
like that? These musicians have nerves like live wires! It is true
what he said--he is mad!"
The Kapellmeister went over to the painting on the wall and looked at
it. "A girl's head," he murmured, "he is right. It is more like a
'Pallas Athene' than a knight; but if it were not for the helmet
glittering, and the spear--"
Suddenly a remembrance came to him, and he struck his breast with his
hand, crying out: "It is no knight! It is Brünnhilde, young and fair,
with her eyes downcast! The light has fallen full on her face. She is
standing there, and the stage is dim; her voice is still in her throat,
dying away!"
Memory caught him then and he came nearer, shading his eyes with his
hand, staring. "She has hung on my wall for years and I never knew it!
It is she--it is her living image--her eyes and her brow--her lips
arched and quivering! It is herself!"
"Brünnhild'!" He lifted his arms: "Brünnhild'!"
CHAPTER XXII
The sun came shining in through the garret windows, dancing over the
floor in cones of light, caressing the geraniums until they gleamed a
rich scarlet against the green of the ivy; and the cobwebs glistened
like silk under the eaves. About the mill the doves flew in circles,
alighting on the sill, clinging to the ivy with their pink claws,
cooing gently, and pecking at the worm-eaten casement.
"Dear doves," said Kaya, "You are hungry, and when you come to me for
bread you find nothing but the stone. Chrr-rp!" She whistled softly
and held her hands over the sill, dropping crumbs: "Chrr-rp! Come,
pretty doves, and eat!"
The birds came nearer, eying her out of their bright eyes with little
runs forward, then circling and cooing again.
"Chrr-rp!" she called,--"Chrr-rp! Come!" And she held out her hands
as if coaxing: "Come, my doves! Chrr-rp!"
One with fawn-coloured wings came flying and lighted on her shoulder;
another followed.
"Come--chrr-rp!"
The soft little bodies huddled against one another on the sill,
pressing closer; some on her arm and some eating out of her hand. She
stroked their bright plumage, holding a crumb between her teeth.
"Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!"
The dove on her shoulder stretched his wings, pressing against her
cheek with his breast, tipping forward on his pink feet, until his beak
reached the crumb and he took it from her lips.
"Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!"
Kaya laughed softly, rubbing her cheek against the down of the bird;
whistling and coaxing with her hands. The doves flew about her,
lighting, struggling for footing on her shoulder and curls; and she
shook her head, laughing:
"Chrr-rp--away with you! Would you pluck my hair and line your nests
with my curls! Pischt--away with you!" she flung out the crumbs again.
"There--eat, my pretty ones--eat!"
Below, the great wheel turned and splashed in the water with a whirr,
buzzing. Kaya gazed down at it, and as she gazed she forgot the doves,
and a strange little shudder went over her, so that the one on her
shoulder lifted his wings in affright.
The water was deep in the pool, and there were little ripples under the
spokes where the sun-beams were dancing. She dropped on her knees
before the window and began to sing, still gazing at the wheel, the
doves all about her, pianissimo--on the lower note of the scale,
singing up, and then in arpeggios; each note distinct and separate like
the link in a chain, pure, soft, hardly above a breath.
As she sang, her voice rose gradually, deepening and increasing in
power. The doves pecked the crumbs on the sill, huddling against her
and eating from her hands. She began to trill from one note to
another, and in trilling, her thoughts ran hither and thither even as
her voice, and her eyes wandered from the wheel, resting dreamily on
the promenade, and the people walking under the trees.
The rhythm of a mazurka was in her ears and she sang louder, trying to
drown it. She was in a great hall vaulted, dome-like with marble
columns; violins were playing and the sound rose and fell, invisible as
from the clouds. There was the perfume of flowers, heavy and
languorous, and snatches of laughter, and the gleaming of jewels. The
floor was shining and polished like a mirror, reflecting the forms of
the dancers as they whirled to and fro. The light was dazzling and the
colour.
She was dancing. Her feet flew in time to the rhythm. . . . Now it
was dark and she was lying back on a divan, faint, helpless. The voice
of the Prince was in her ears and he was bending over her; his eyes
were crossed. . . . Ah, the clock was striking! It was midnight and
someone had opened the door! Someone was crossing the room and bending
over papers on the desk! . . . There was the sound of a shot! She was
holding the pistol in her hand . . . It was smoking and through the
vapoury wreathes she saw on the floor a body lying . . . a man on his
face with his arms outstretched!
She shuddered again and the doves rose uneasily, circling about her,
and lighting with fluttering wings.
"I have tried to atone," she whispered to the birds, "Come back! God
knows--I have tried to atone!"
Then she went on trilling high up in the scale, her eyes gazing
dreamily and her hands amongst the doves, stroking them, playing with
them.
Suddenly the door opened.
"Is it you, Marta?"
"No, it is I."
The voice was that of a man, deep and harsh, and the steps were firm.
They crossed the room and stopped behind the kneeling figure.
"Hush!" said Kaya, "Not too near, dear Master! You will frighten the
doves! See, how they press against me with their breasts and their
wings--and how they flutter! They were hungry this morning, but they
have eaten now and are happy. Once they came to me and I had nothing
for them. If they knew better, poor doves, it is you they would fly
to, and your hands they would eat from; since it is you who have fed
them, not I."
"You were practising," said the Kapellmeister, "That is well, Kaya. I
heard you from the promenade and I saw you. Your curls were like a
halo of gold in the sun, and the doves circled, cooing. One was on
your shoulder. Ah, it has gone now--I have startled it! It was close
to your cheek, and you were feeding it from your lips."
"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes. It is sweet to be able to feed them. You have
fed us both, dear Master."
She turned her head slightly, smiling up at him.
"Turn your head further, Kaya; let me see your face."
"The dove has come back. How can I? There--move a little, my
dove--chrr-rp! Go away! No, he clings! See--I cannot! The down on
his breast is so soft and his feathers so warm. He presses so close."
"Tell me, little one, how is your voice today? The same--full and
strong as it was that night? Are you Kaya to-day, or Brünnhild'?"
The girl smiled again.
"Look at me, child. I have come to talk to you. There is a rehearsal
this morning for 'Siegfried.'"
"Ah--yes!"
"The performance is advertized for tomorrow."
"--Yes?"
"Are you listening, Kaya? Your voice has a dreamy sound. What are you
thinking about?"
She started. "Nothing!"
"What are you thinking about? Tell me."
"Russia!"
The Kapellmeister gave a sharp exclamation: "That is why you would not
turn your head! It was not the dove, I knew. Are you still--"
"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes, it never leaves me. The curse, the curse of
the--Cross!"
She pressed her cheek against the dove, hiding her eyes.
"It must leave you!" said the Kapellmeister roughly, "There is work for
you to do! Rouse yourself, Kaya! Drive away the doves now or I will
do it myself. If you brood, you will ruin your voice--do you hear me?"
"Pischt!" said Kaya, "Now they are gone--! I will not think any more
of Russia to-day."
The Kapellmeister went to the window and laid his hand where the dove
had been, pressing the slender shoulder and forcing her to turn.
"I want you," he said, "Now--this morning! I have come for you!"
Kaya rose to her feet slowly: "To sit aloft in the flies and sing while
Siegfried seeks me?" She smiled up at him; "You have come for your
bird?"
"No."
Her eyes searched his. "No," she faltered, "did I sing badly? I--I
thought--"
"Kaya, the Schultz is ill."
The colour rushed to the girl's face and then fled away again, leaving
her pale. "Ill!" she stammered, "You look at me so strangely, dear
Master!"
"The Directors have authorized me to wire to Dresden for another
soprano."
"Yes--?"
"I refused."
Kaya raised her blue eyes.
"I told them I had a Brünnhilde here on the spot. Can you do it? I
have taken the risk. Can you do it? If you sing as you did that
night--!"
"I will," cried Kaya, "I will!" She pressed against him like the
doves, clasping her hands together. "It is only the one scene, Master;
I know it so well, every note! Many times I rehearsed it with
Helmanoff, many times. Bring me the helmet and the spear--bring me
Siegfried!" Her eyes were shining.
"Then come with me now," cried the Kapellmeister, "As you are! Is that
your hat on the nail? Put it on. The placards are out--and the
orchestra sits in the pit, waiting. I have promised them a Walküre
with a voice like a bell! Come, Kaya--come! You are not nervous,
little one, or afraid?"
Kaya ran lightly to the peg and took down her hat. She was laughing,
and her face was alight as if the sun-beams had touched it; her lips
were parted and the dimples came and went in her cheeks:
"Now--my cloak!" she cried, "Quick! Help me--the right sleeve, dear
master, can you find it? Yes--yes! And my gloves--here they are!"
"Kaya, your face is like a rose and your feet are dancing."
She blushed. "You don't know," she said, "I have dreamed all my life
of being Brünnhilde. When I feel the helmet and the shield on my
breast, and the touch of the spear--it is like wine!" She stopped
suddenly and passed her hand over her face.
"What is it, Kaya?"
"I forgot," she said, "I forgot--! Take my cloak; take my hat! I
cannot sing. I forgot!"
Ritter stared at her: "What do you mean, child; what are you talking
about? Is it fright? Tschut! It will pass." He took the cloak again
and laid it about her shoulders: "Come now, the orchestra will be
growing impatient. It is ten o'clock past."
"I cannot," said Kaya, and her lip trembled: "Telegraph to Dresden,
dear Master--quickly!"
"Potztausend--and why?"
She backed slowly away from him and the cloak fell to the ground.
"Kaya, you shake as if you had a chill!"
"Can Brünnhilde sit aloft in the flies?" she said, "She is there in
front of the footlights and everyone sees her. Oh--I forgot!"
"Donnerwetter! Of course she is seen! Is it the sight of the audience
that will frighten you?"
"No," she said, "not the audience."
Ritter made an impatient movement forward: "What then? Sacrement! You
were full of joy not a moment ago; there was no fear in your eyes, and
now--it is as if someone had struck you!" He followed her to the
corner where she had retreated step by step; and when she could go no
further, he laid his hands on her shoulders.
"Look at me," he said, "straight in the eyes, Kaya, straight in the
eyes. You must."
"I--cannot!"
"I tell you you must."
He bent over her, and she felt his hands bearing heavily on her
shoulders; his eyes were flashing, insistent, determined: "You must."
"I cannot."
"Come."
She shook her head.
"Kaya--! You have been like my child! I--I love you as my own
daughter! Your career, your success is dear to me. I have ventured
more than you know on this chance--that you might have it. The town is
crowded with strangers. The House will be full. They will hear you
and your fame may be made in a night! What is the matter with you,
little one?"
"I cannot," said Kaya.
His grasp grew heavier. "If you throw away this chance--listen to
me--it may be years before you have another. You are young, and
managers are hard to approach; you found that yourself. It is the
merest accident of fate that the Schultz should be ill just now, while
no other soprano is on hand, and you know the part. You sang it for
me, Kaya, that night, and your voice was Brünnhilde's own. Would you
be a coward now? Come, and let me cover you with the shield and the
helmet; when you feel the spear in your hand the fright will leave you.
It is not like you to be afraid, Kaya. Your eyes are like a doe's!
Don't be frightened, little one."
She looked at him and tried to speak, but no words came.
"If I yielded to you, Kaya, if I let you be conquered by the
stage-terror once, it would be a rock in your path forever. Come with
me! My will is strong, stronger than yours, and I swear you shall
come! If I have to carry you in my arms to the stage, you shall come;
and you will thank me for it afterwards when the terror has passed."
"No--no!" The girl pressed closer against the wall, "Don't, dear
Master, take your hands from my shoulders. I cannot!"
"Come."
"No."
He stared down into the blue eyes: "I tell you you shall come. You are
throwing away the chance of a lifetime; do you understand? If you have
no care for your own future, I shall care for it for you. Kaya!"
"No."
"Come, I tell you!"
His eyes were hard and cold, and her form was slight; it reeled in his
grasp. She gazed at him and her chin was set like his own.
"If you care for me, Kaya, if you are grateful--" he hesitated, "Ah,
come with me, Kaya! It is not fear I see in your eyes; it is something
else. What is it? Tell me!" He put his arm about her shoulders
suddenly, and the harsh look left his face: "Confide in me, little one,
I won't try to force you. You are slight and frail, but your will is
like iron; it is useless. If I carried you it would be useless."
Kaya took a quick breath. "Dear Master," she said, "It is not the
audience I fear, not the audience, but it is someone in the audience.
If that someone should see me and--and recognize me!"
"You forget, Kaya; did I recognize you?"
"No, but the foot-lights were not in my face. When the House is
crowded and the curtain is up, and the glare is full in my eyes, then--"
"You are disguised by the hair red-blonde, and the helmet covering. No
one could tell! At a distance you are not Kaya, you are Brünnhilde.
Brünnhilde is always the same. When your eyes are hidden, Kaya, and
your curls--the House is large--no one could tell!" He was drawing her
slowly toward the door.
"You did not," said Kaya, "but--if he were there he would know."
"Who?"
She looked at him mutely, and he took his hand from her shoulder.
"Whoever it is," exclaimed Ritter harshly, "from the House, I swear to
you, your own mother would not know you, unless she had seen you before
in the part. That is nonsense! From the orchestra perhaps, from the
conductor's stand--but not from the House. Kaya, you hurt me, child;
you hurt me sorely if you refuse!"
He stood before her with his arms folded. "My heart is set on your
success," he said, "and if--"
Kaya, looking up suddenly, saw that there were tears in his eyes.
"Master," she cried. And then her will broke suddenly like iron in a
furnace, red-hot under the stroke of the hammer. "You are sure?" she
cried, "From the House no one would know me? You are sure?"
"I am sure."
She hesitated, looking away from him.
"No one?" she repeated, "not even--"
Then she raised her eyes and came closer to the Kapellmeister, looking
up in his face. "He loves me," she stammered, "And I--I love him! But
the curse is between us--if he should find me again--! Ah, it is
myself I am afraid of--myself!" Her breath came in sobs and her face
quivered.
The Kapellmeister lifted the cloak from the floor and put it around her
shoulders. There was a strange light in his eyes. He gazed at her for
a moment; then he caught her by the hand and drew her toward the door.
"Come!" he said, "Trust me, Kaya. I understand--at last I understand.
Come!"
She yielded without a word.
They were both trembling.
CHAPTER XXIII
The second Act was over. The curtain had descended slowly, hiding the
singers; the lights had flashed up, revealing the House. It was
crowded from the pit to the gallery. The double row of loggias was
ablaze with colour; and from them came a light ripple of talk and of
laughter, broken loose as the curtain fell, a sound like the running of
water over smooth pebbles.
The Schultz was ill. So it was advertized all over the foyer on huge
yellow placards; and a new Brünnhilde was to take her place. The name
was unknown; a young singer doubtless, brought forward under the stress
of the dilemma. The audience whispered together and the ripple grew
louder. In the next Act, the final scene, she would appear. The
moments were passing.
Suddenly the door at the back of one of the loggias opened, and an
usher ran hurriedly in. He gave a hasty glance over the occupants, and
then bent and whispered to a gentleman in the rear.
"Monsieur Velasco?"
The gentleman nodded.
"Sir--the Kapellmeister has been seized with a sudden attack of
giddiness and is unable to continue with the performance. He begs
earnestly that you will conduct the last Act in his place."
"I--?" said Velasco.
"There is no other musician in the House, sir, who could do it. The
Kapellmeister is in great distress. The minutes are passing."
"Tell him I will come," said Velasco, "I will come." He rose and
followed the usher from the loggia.
When the curtain went up for the third Act, a young, slender figure
appeared in the orchestra pit, mounting the platform; only his head
with the dark hair falling, the arm raised, and the baton, were
visible. The House was in darkness; a hush had crept over it.
The Act was progressing.
Already the smoke was in wreaths about the couch of Brünnhilde, hiding
it, enveloping the stage in a grey, misty veil. Flames flashed up here
and there, licking in tongues of fire about the rocks and the trees.
As they rose and fell and the smoke grew denser, the music became more
vivid, intense, full of strange running melodies, until the violins
were to the ear as the flames to the eye. The stage was a billow of
smoke curling, and the sound of the orchestra was as fire, crackling,
leaping.
The smoke grew denser like a thick, grey fog, rolling in wreaths. The
music was a riot of tones sparkling, and the hearts of the audience
beat fast to the rhythm.
Suddenly through the veil, dim, indistinct, showed the couch of
Brünnhilde, shrouded in the billows and puffs of the smoke; the goddess
herself stretched lifeless, asleep; and the form of Siegfried, breaking
through the ring of the fire, leaping forward, the sword in his hand.
He sprang to the couch, gazing down at the sleeping Walküre, straight
and still, covered with the shimmering steel of the buckler, the spear
by her side and the helmet on her head, motionless, glittering in the
flare of the flames. "Brünnhilde--Brünnhilde!"
Siegfried lifted his voice and sang to her--he had taken the shield
from her now and was bending lower, clasping his hands as if in ecstasy.
The House was like a black pit, silent, without movement or rustle,
hanging on the notes, watching the glittering, prostrate form and
Siegfried stooping. . . . Presently she stirred. The smoke had grown
lighter, more vapoury, translucent. Her form stirred slowly, dreamily,
raising itself from the couch. The magic was broken; the goddess was
aroused at last.
Brünnhilde opened her eyes--and half kneeling, half reclining, she
stared about her, dazed, half conscious. Siegfried hung over her. The
flames, the smoke were dying away. She seemed in a trance; and then,
as she gazed at the sky and the sunlight, the rocks and the trees, her
lips parted suddenly; she raised her arms, half in bewilderment half in
ecstasy, stretching them upwards, and began to sing.
It was like a lark, disturbed by the reapers, rising from its nest in
the meadows. The notes came softly, dreamily from her throat; and then
as she rose slowly to her feet, clasping the spear, it was as if a
floodgate had been opened and the sounds poured out, full, glorious,
irresistible, ringing through the darkness and the silence of the
House. Drawn to her height she stood, the helmet tipped back on her
red-blonde hair, the white robes trailing about her, the spear
uplifted. As she sang her throat swelled, her voice came like a
torrent: above the wood-winds and strings, the brass and the basses,
the single voice soared higher and higher, deeper and richer, full of
passion and pure.
"Heil dir, Sonne!
Heil dir, Licht!
Heil dir, leuchtender Tag!"
The "Heil" was like a clarion note ringing through space; like the
sound of an echo through mountain passes. The audience listened and
gazed as under a spell; the orchestra played as it had never played
before; the baton waved. Siegfried sang to her and she responded;
their voices rising and mingling together, every note a glory.
On the stage, still dim with the smoke and the flames, the light grew
stronger, illuminating the helmet of Brünnhilde, the tip of her spear,
falling full on her face and her eyes. She drew nearer the
foot-lights, still singing, her sight half blinded, gazing
unconsciously into the pit of the House and the darkness. She was
clasping her spear, and her voice rose high above the violins.
Her eyes sought the baton, the face of her Master; and then as she
stood, she trembled suddenly. Her voice died away in her throat; her
steps faltered.
The Conductor leaned over the desk, the baton moving mechanically as if
the fingers were stiffened. The orchestra played on. A shudder ran
over the House.
What had happened? Brünnhilde had stopped singing. Siegfried was
trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own. The Walküre stood
motionless, transfixed, her eyes riveted on the Conductor. A slight
murmur ran over the House: "Was she ill--struck with sudden paralysis?
Or was it the stage-terror, pitiless, irresistible, benumbing her
faculties?"
She stood there; and then she stretched out her hands, trembling; her
voice came back.
"Velasco!" she cried.
"Kaya--Kaya!"
But the audience thought she had called out to Siegfried, and to
encourage her they applauded, clapping and stamping with their feet and
their hands. The sound revived her suddenly like the dash of cold
water on the face of a sleep-walker.
"I must go on!" she said to herself, "Whatever happens I must go on!"
Her eyes were still riveted.
The face of Velasco was white as death; great drops stood out on his
brows, his fingers quivered over the baton. He moved it mechanically,
gazing, and he swayed in his seat as if faint and oppressed. The other
hand was stretched trembling toward her as if a vision had come in his
path suddenly and he was blinded.
Her lips moved again, and his. For a moment it seemed as if he were
about to leap to the stage over the foot-lights. Brünnhilde fell back.
"For God's sake!" whispered Siegfried, "What is it? Are you mad?
Sing--sing! Let out your voice--take up your cue! Go on!"
Again she cried out; but this time her voice was in the tone, and the
emotion of it, the longing, rent the air as with passion unveiled and
bared. She shook the spear aloft in her hands, brandishing it, until
the gleam from the flames lit it up like a spark, and fell on her
helmet.
Siegfried besought her and she answered, they sang together; but as she
answered, singing, her eyes were still fixed, and she sang as one out
of herself and inspired.
"Siegfried!"
"Brünnhilde!"
"Siegfried! Siegfried! seliger Held!
Pu Wecker des Lebens, siegendes Licht!"
The tempo quickened and the rhythm; and the tones grew higher and
richer, ringing, more passionate. Such acting--such singing! It was
as if the Walküre herself had come out of the trance back to life, and
the audience saw Brünnhilde in the flesh. The House reverberated to
the sound of her voice; it was a glory, a revelation.
She sang on and on, and Siegfried answered; but the eyes of the Singer,
and her hands lifted, were toward the House, the orchestra pit, the
desk, the baton--the head with its dark hair falling and the arm
outstretched.
The curtain fell slowly.
"Brünnhilde! Brünnhilde!"
With the flaring up of the lights the House was in an uproar. "Who was
she? What was she? Where did she come from? Ah--h! Brünnhilde!"
They clapped and stamped, and shouted themselves hoarse, calling her
name: "Brünnhilde!"
* * * * * *
"She is there!" cried the Kapellmeister, "Go to her, Velasco; go to her
quickly! Gott! I thought the Opera would have come to a standstill!
My heart was in my mouth!--Go!"
He pushed the Violinist towards the door and closed it behind him; then
he fell back against the wall and listened. The noise in the House was
like a mob let loose.
"Brünnhilde! Why doesn't she come? Bring her before the
curtain! . . . Brünnhilde!"
"I must go," he said, "I must speak to them--tell them anything--she is
ill--she is exhausted! Something--it doesn't matter! I must go and
quiet the tumult!"
The Kapellmeister leaned for a moment against the background of the
scenery; he looked at the door and listened. The House was going mad:
"Brünnhilde! Brünnhilde!"
Then, staggering a little, with his hands to his face, he went out on
the stage.
CHAPTER XXIV.
"Kaya!"
"Velasco! Ah, Velasco! Don't come--don't touch--me!"
He sprang forward.
She was still in the Brünnhilde dress with the helmet on her head and
the white robes trailing. The spear lay at her feet. He trampled on
it as he sprang, snatching her into his arms: "Kaya!"
His grip was like a band of steel and he wound his arms about her,
pressing her to him: "Kaya, my beloved! Ah, my beloved--speak to me!
Open your eyes! Look at me!" He tore the helmet from her head and
flung it to the ground. The red-blonde hair fell back, and he kissed
her cheek and her curls.
He was like a whirlwind wooing, and she like a lily blown by the gale.
She lay in his arms. Her lips quivered as he kissed them, but she lay
without motion or sign.
"Are you faint?" he cried, "Have you swooned? Kaya! It is as if the
world had gone to pieces suddenly and this were chaos, and only you and
I--only you and I."
He kissed her eyelids.
"Open them, Kaya, they are blue as the sky."
He kissed her throat.
"It swells like a bird's when it trills, and the sound of it is as a
nightingale in the twilight."
He kissed her lips.
"Ah, they are warm; they quiver and tremble!"
His arms were so strong she was pinioned, and she panted as she
breathed. He kissed her again and again as one who is starving and
thirsty, and she stirred in his arms, lifting her face:
"Velasco--my husband--my--self! To lie in your arms--it is heaven, and
to leave them is hell! Let me go--Velasco! I love you--I love you!
Let me--go!"
"So long as the world lasts and there is strength in my body--never!
Say you love me again."
"I love you."
"You will never leave me? You will stay with me always while we live?
Say it, Kaya! Your cheeks are white like a sea-shell; they flush like
a rose when I press them with my lips! Say it, Kaya! You are
trembling--you are sobbing!"
"I must leave you, Velasco--I cannot stay. It is like leaving one's
life and one's soul!"
He laughed: "Leave me then! Can you stir from my arms? They are
strong. I will hold you forever." He laid his dark, curly head
against the gold of her curls, and she felt his breath against her
throat.
She opened her eyes: "My hands, Velasco--they are stained with blood;
have you forgotten? How can I stay with you when there is--blood on
my--hands?"
He pressed her closer: "Give them to me; let me kiss the stains!"
"I am cursed, Velasco, I am cursed! I have taken the life of a man!"
He held his breath suddenly, moving his face until he could see into
her eyes. "Ah," he said, "Is that why you left me, Kaya, because of
the curse?"
"Yes--Velasco."
"You loved me then! It was a lie? Kaya, tell me!"
"I loved you, Velasco, I loved you!"
"And now--?"
She clung to him and his arms tightened.
Suddenly he laughed again. "Hark!" he cried, "You hear the shouting?
They are shouting for you! They are stamping and clapping for you;
they are calling your name!" He threw back his head, laughing madly:
"Come--Kaya! Let us go together and peep through the curtain. The
first time I saw you, you were there in the House, and I behind on the
stage alone, with your violets. Now we are together. You will leave
me, you say? Come, Kaya, and look at the House through the curtain.
You are trembling, little one; and when I put you down on your feet you
can scarcely stand. You are sorry to leave me? It is like tearing
one's heart from one's body while one still lives! Will you tear it,
beloved? Come--and look through the hole in the curtain."
He put his arm about her, drawing her forward, looking down at her
curls. "You are weak, Kaya; your form sways like the stem of a flower.
Lean against me. Let me lead you. It is because your heart is so
loyal and true; to kill it will be killing yourself! Don't sob, Kaya!
Look through the curtain! Hark at the stamping! Look--dear
beloved--lean on my shoulder and look!"
"Ah, Velasco, it is like a great mob; the Kapellmeister is there before
the curtain. He tries to speak, but they will not listen! They are
calling: 'Brünnhilde--Brünnhilde!' Is that for me?"
"For you."
"Why should I look, Velasco--why should I listen? My heart is
breaking. I cannot bear it--Velasco!"
"Lean on my shoulder; look again, Kaya, put your eyes to the hole. Do
you see a loggia above to the left, full of people standing, and in
front some one tall and in uniform?"
"No, Velasco--I see nothing!"
"It is the tears in your eyes, Kaya! Brush them away and look once
again. Don't you see him--in uniform, tall with a beaked nose, a grey
mustache and his eyes crossed?"
"His eyes crossed--Velasco! Are you mad? He is dead! I tell you,
Velasco, he is--dead! The Grand-Duke Stepan!--I killed him!"
"He is not dead."
"The Grand-Duke Ste--"
"He is not dead. He lives and he stands there before you--clapping and
shouting your name."
She gazed up at him with trembling lips: "There is no curse,
Velasco--he lives? There is--no curse--no stain on my hands? Am I
mad? No curse of the Cross--the Black Cross?"
"Kaya--my beloved!"
She fell back slowly against his breast and his arms closed around her.