The Black Cross Part 33

The cry came big and pa.s.sionate as from the throat of a Walkure, 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 Brunnhilde alive--your voice is the voice of the G.o.ddess 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 pa.s.sed, and he looked up.

Brunnhilde 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 Brunnhilde had lain, and where Siegfried had kissed her. His face had a dazed look, and he pa.s.sed 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 Walkure born. Take the helmet again and the spear. As you stood in the shadow, gazing downward, you were like a young warrior watching his s.h.i.+eld." 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 pa.s.sage 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 Brunnhilde." Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp, springing forward and crouching:

"You are Wotan and you are angry," she whispered, "The Brunnhilde 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 verstosest 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 verstosest 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 Brunnhilde, 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 Brunnhilde. 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 Brunnhilde 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 s.h.i.+eld, 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 Brunnhilde; she was a little figure, slight and pale, and wrapped in a cloak; and she sat in the corner against the cus.h.i.+ons, staring out at the rain, quivering at the thunder crashes.

Ritter stepped in behind her and closed the door. "Nonnen-Muhle!" 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.