The Black Cross Part 19

"I can't, Kaya, it is maddening!"

"Just a little, Velasco."

"Is that better? Tsyacha chertei, how it rasps one's ears!"

"Yes, but your technique, Velasco! No gypsey could play like that!

Leave out the double stops and the trills!"

"I forget, little one, I forget! The Stradivarius plays itself. Keep the castanet rattling and then I will remember."

"Velasco, hist--st! There are strangers standing by the door; they have just come in! Scratch a little more, just a little. Your tone is so deep and so pure. When you rubato, and then quicken suddenly, and the notes come in a rush like that, I can hardly keep still. My pulses are leaping, dancing! One, two--one, two, three!"

"Is that right? Don't ask me to scratch, Kaya! I can't bear it so close to my ear. The din of their stamping is frightful, the swine!

No one will notice."

The whispering ceased. The gypsey bent his dark head again and the violin played on. "One, two--one, two, three!"

All of a sudden, voices began to call out from the floor, here and there among the dancers, irritated and angry; then an oath or two: "Keep time, Bradjaga, keep time!" Their heels beat against the floor.

The landlord crossed the room hastily, edging in and out among the dancers; he was frowning and rubbing his hands one over the other.

When he reached the platform, he leaned on it with his elbows and beckoned to the gypsies.

"You don't play badly," he called, "not badly at all; but Dimitri, the old man, he suited them better. He always came strong on the beat.

Play the old tunes, Bradjaga; something they know with a crash on the first, like this."

He clapped his hands: "_One_, two, three! _One_, two, three! And fast--just so, all the time!"

"Chort vozmi[1]!" cried Velasco, "They don't like my playing! Don't clap your hands again--don't! The racket is enough to split one's ear-drums!"

He dropped his violin on his knees and stared blinking at the landlord, who was still gesticulating and taking little skipping steps by way of ill.u.s.tration.

"_One_, two, three--_one_, two, three! So, loud and strong! Just try it, Bradjaga!"

Velas...o...b..inked again and a flush came slowly in his cheeks: "My poor Stradivarius," he said slowly in Polish, "They don't like you; they prefer a common fiddler with a crash on the beat! Bozhe moi! Kaya, do you hear?"

The younger gypsey made a sound half startled, half laughing, drawing nearer to him on the platform. "Hist, Velasco! They are peasants; they don't know! Ah, be careful--the strangers are crossing the floor.

They are looking at you and talking together! I knew it, I feared it!"

The dancing had stopped, and threading their way through the groups came several ladies and a gentleman.

"Bradjaga," said the landlord, "This is Ivan Petrokoff, the famous musician of Moscow, who has deigned to honour my humble house with his presence. He wishes to examine your instrument."

The gentleman nodded brusquely and stretched out a fat hand. He was short and quite bald, and he stuttered as he spoke. "Quite a d-decent fiddle for a gypsey," he said, "Let me s-see it!"

Velas...o...b..wed with his hand on his heart: "It is mine," he said in a humble voice, "A thousand pardons, Barin! Impossible!"

"I will p-pay you for it!" said the gentleman angrily, "How much do you w-want?"

Velasco smiled and put his hand to his heart again, shrugging his shoulders.

"Not that it is of any p-particular value," continued Petrokoff, "but I like the t-tone. I will give you--hm--s-sixty-five roubles!"

Velasco drew the bow softly over the strings; he was still smiling.

"Seventy! That is exorbitant for a g-gypsey's fiddle! You could buy a d-dozen other instruments for that, just as good! Come--will you t-take it?"

Velas...o...b..gan to trill softly on the G string, and then swept over the arch with an arpeggio pianissimo.

"You are like a J-Jew!" exclaimed the musician. "You want to bargain!

One hundred r-roubles then! There!" He turned to the landlord, stretching out his fat hands, palms upwards. "Absurd isn't it? The f-fellow must be mad!"

"Mad indeed," echoed the landlord, "A miserable, tattered bradjaga, who can't even keep time. You heard yourself, Professor, how he changed the beat and threw the dancers out, every moment or so. They are nothing but tramps; but if you want a fiddle, Barin, old Dimitri, who is sick in bed with the rheumatism in his legs, he will sell you his for a quarter the price and be thankful. A nice little instrument, fine and well polished, not old and yellow with the back worn!"

He twiddled his fingers in contempt.

Velasco ran lightly a scale over the strings. His hair fell over his brows and he half closed his eyes, gazing at the musician through the slits mockingly.

"Are you really the great Petrokoff?" he said, "The Professor of the Violin known through all Russia! From Moscow? Even the gypsies have heard of you!"

The Professor lifted his fingers to his lips and blew on them as if to warm the ends, which were flat and stubbed from much playing on the strings: "Humph!" he said, "You are only a boy! You are talented, it is true; but what do you know of violinists? You ought to be studying."

"That is true, Barin," said Velasco humbly. "I am only a poor gypsey; I know nothing!"

"Let me see your hand and your arm," said Petrokoff, "Yes, the shape is excellent; the muscles are good. You need training of course. If you come to the Conservatory at Moscow, I may be able to procure for you a scholars.h.i.+p for one of my cla.s.ses."

"Ah, Barin--your Excellence, how kind you are!" murmured the gypsey.

"I should like it above all things! Would the Barin teach me himself?"

"Certainly," said Petrokoff loftily, "Certainly; but you would have to pa.s.s an examination. Your bowing, for instance, is bad! You should hold your arm so, and your wrist like this."

"Like this?" murmured Velasco, curving his wrist first in one way, then in another. "That is indeed difficult, Barin."

"Give the bow to me," said Petrokoff, "Now, let me show you! I am very particular about that with all my pupils. There--that is better."

The gypsey brushed a lock from his eyes and took up the bow carefully, as if he were handling an egg with the sh.e.l.l broken. "Ah--so?" he said, "Of course! And can you play with your wrist like that, Barin?"

Petrokoff stretched out his hand and took the violin from the gypsey's arms: "Give it to me," he said, "You notice how limpid, how rich the tone! That comes from the method. You will learn it in time; the secret lies in the bowing, the way the wrist is held--so!"

Velasco opened his eyes wide: "Oh, how clumsy I am in comparison!" he said wistfully. "Your scale, Barin! I never heard such a scale." He gave a swift glance over his shoulder at his companion with a low whistle of astonishment.

"Your comrade seems to be choking," said one of the ladies, "I never heard any one cough so. Is he consumptive?"

"No--no!" said the gypsey. "It is probably a crumb of bread gone the wrong way; or the dust blown about by the dancing. He will recover.

Barin--now tell me, do I hold the elbow right?"

"Not at all. The arm must be--so!"

"Ah--so?"