The Black Cross Part 36

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 pa.s.sage, connecting the green-room with the stage-door of the Opera House; a pa.s.sage narrow and ill-smelling, without windows or light; but dear to the hearts of musicians by reason of its a.s.sociations.

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 s.n.a.t.c.hes 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 m.u.f.fled.

Kaya took the green paste-board hastily in her hand, clasping it, as if afraid it might in some way be s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 a.s.sembling, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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.

G.o.d! 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 hoa.r.s.ely, his voice full of repressed anger and emotion:

"Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms! The G.o.ds 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 Mariinski, 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 pa.s.sed 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!

G.o.d, how it haunts me!" He nodded to the Kapellmeister.

They went on.