The Black Cross Part 37

"Let me out!" said Kaya, "I am faint--let me out! Let me--out!" She struggled to the door, through the crowd, pressing her way slowly, painfully. Her cheeks were white and she was panting.

"Ah--for G.o.d's sake! Let me out!"

"Come this way, Velasco, this way through the pa.s.sage. The din in the House is terrific--you have driven them mad! Hark to your name, how they shout it and stamp! They will be rus.h.i.+ng to the stage door presently, as soon as the ushers have turned out the lights and the hope of your reappearance is gone. No wonder, man--you played like a G.o.d! You were like one inspired! Shall you risk it; or will you come through to my room in the Opera House, where we can wait and smoke quietly until the clamour is past?"

"Anywhere, Ritter, only to get away from that horrible noise!" The Musician covered his ears with his hands and shuddered: "That is the worst of being an artist--there is no peace, no privacy! The people consider one a music-box to wind up at their pleasure! A pest on it all!"

The two men quickened their footsteps, hurrying down the long corridor, and presently a door shut behind them.

"There--thank heaven!" cried Ritter, "Around to the left now, Velasco, and then at the top of the stairs is my den. Let me go first and open the door."

The room was a small one, half filled with the bulk of a grand piano.

About the walls ran shelf after shelf of music; opera scores and presentation copies in ma.n.u.script. A bust of Wagner stood in the corner, and on the wall behind the pianoforte was a large painting in sepia, dim, with strong lights and shadows.

The window was open, and below it lay the street, still in the darkness; above, the heavens were clear and the stars were s.h.i.+ning.

Ritter pulled forward an arm-chair and motioned the Musician towards it:

"Sit down, Velasco. Will you have a pipe, or cigar? You look exhausted, man! This fasting before is too much for you; you are pale as death. Shall I send out the watchman for food, or shall we wait and go to the Keller together?"

Velasco nodded and sank back in the chair, covering his eyes with his hand:

"Is it usual for musicians to go mad?" he said.

"Heavens!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "What are you talking about?

Usual? Of course not! Some do. What is the matter with you, Velasco?

You are overwrought to-night."

"No," he said, "No. When you hear themes in your head, and rhythms throbbing in your pulses--is that a sign?"

"Behute! We all have that. After an opera my head goes round like a buzz-saw, and the motives spring about inside like demons. If that is all, Velasco, you are not mad. Take a cigarette."

"Thank you, Ritter. Tell me--when you conduct, is it as if force and power were going from you, oozing away with the music; and you were in a trance and someone else were wielding the baton, interpreting, playing on the instruments, not yourself?"

The Kapellmeister shook his head grimly: "Sometimes, Velasco, but not often; we are not all like you. That is Genius speaking through you."

"Afterwards," continued the Violinist, "it is as if one had had an illness. To-night I am weary--Bozhe moi! My body is numb, I can scarcely lift my feet, or my hands; only my nerves are alive, and they are like electric wires scintillating, jumping. The liquid runs through my veins like fire! Is that a--?"

"Bewahre--bewahre! You throw yourself into your playing headlong, body and soul. It wrecks one mentally and physically to listen; how much more then to play! If you were like others, Velasco, you would drink yourself to drowsiness and drown those sensations; or else you would seek pleasure, distraction. When Genius has been with you, guiding your brain and your fingers, and you are left suddenly with an empty void, what else can you expect but reaction, nausea of life and of art?

Bewahre, man! That is no madness! It is sanity--normal conditions returning. You are mad when the Genius is with you, you are mad when you play; but now--now you are sane; you are like other men, Velasco, and you don't recognize yourself!"

The Kapellmeister laughed, drawing whiffs from his cigar.

Velasco uncovered his eyes: "You don't understand," he said slowly: "I see things--I have illusions! It is something that comes and dances before me as I play, the same thing always. I saw it to-night."

"What sort of thing?"

Velasco stared suddenly at the opposite wall. "What is that painting there, Ritter?"

"The one over the piano? I bought it in St. Petersburg years ago, when I was touring: a copy of the Rembrandt in the 'Hermitage.' Don't you know it?"

"What is it?"

"The Knight with the Golden Helmet' I call it; but it is really a 'Pallas Athene.'"

"The Knight--the Knight with the Golden Helmet! That is no knight--it is the head of a woman, a girl; look at the oval of the cheek, the lips, the eyes! That is no knight, nor is it a 'Pallas Athene'!-- My G.o.d! I am going mad, I tell you! Wherever I look, I see it before me--an illusion, a trick of the senses! It is madness!"

Velasco sprang to his feet with a cry. "I can't bear it," he cried, "open the door! d.a.m.n you, Ritter, get out of the way!"

Velasco sprang forward, struggling for a moment with the Kapellmeister, and then Ritter fell back. The clutch on his shoulder was like iron.

He fell back, and the door slammed.

"Potztausend!" he cried, "What is there in my painting to start him like that? These musicians have nerves like live wires! It is true what he said--he is mad!"

The Kapellmeister went over to the painting on the wall and looked at it. "A girl's head," he murmured, "he is right. It is more like a 'Pallas Athene' than a knight; but if it were not for the helmet glittering, and the spear--"

Suddenly a remembrance came to him, and he struck his breast with his hand, crying out: "It is no knight! It is Brunnhilde, young and fair, with her eyes downcast! The light has fallen full on her face. She is standing there, and the stage is dim; her voice is still in her throat, dying away!"

Memory caught him then and he came nearer, shading his eyes with his hand, staring. "She has hung on my wall for years and I never knew it!

It is she--it is her living image--her eyes and her brow--her lips arched and quivering! It is herself!"

"Brunnhild'!" He lifted his arms: "Brunnhild'!"

CHAPTER XXII

The sun came s.h.i.+ning in through the garret windows, dancing over the floor in cones of light, caressing the geraniums until they gleamed a rich scarlet against the green of the ivy; and the cobwebs glistened like silk under the eaves. About the mill the doves flew in circles, alighting on the sill, clinging to the ivy with their pink claws, cooing gently, and pecking at the worm-eaten cas.e.m.e.nt.

"Dear doves," said Kaya, "You are hungry, and when you come to me for bread you find nothing but the stone. Chrr-rp!" She whistled softly and held her hands over the sill, dropping crumbs: "Chrr-rp! Come, pretty doves, and eat!"

The birds came nearer, eying her out of their bright eyes with little runs forward, then circling and cooing again.

"Chrr-rp!" she called,--"Chrr-rp! Come!" And she held out her hands as if coaxing: "Come, my doves! Chrr-rp!"

One with fawn-coloured wings came flying and lighted on her shoulder; another followed.

"Come--chrr-rp!"

The soft little bodies huddled against one another on the sill, pressing closer; some on her arm and some eating out of her hand. She stroked their bright plumage, holding a crumb between her teeth.

"Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!"

The dove on her shoulder stretched his wings, pressing against her cheek with his breast, tipping forward on his pink feet, until his beak reached the crumb and he took it from her lips.