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