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