The Black Cross Part 13

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, d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sion; 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?"