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