The Black Cross Part 40

"No one?" she repeated, "not even--"

Then she raised her eyes and came closer to the Kapellmeister, looking up in his face. "He loves me," she stammered, "And I--I love him! But the curse is between us--if he should find me again--! Ah, it is myself I am afraid of--myself!" Her breath came in sobs and her face quivered.

The Kapellmeister lifted the cloak from the floor and put it around her shoulders. There was a strange light in his eyes. He gazed at her for a moment; then he caught her by the hand and drew her toward the door.

"Come!" he said, "Trust me, Kaya. I understand--at last I understand.

Come!"

She yielded without a word.

They were both trembling.

CHAPTER XXIII

The second Act was over. The curtain had descended slowly, hiding the singers; the lights had flashed up, revealing the House. It was crowded from the pit to the gallery. The double row of loggias was ablaze with colour; and from them came a light ripple of talk and of laughter, broken loose as the curtain fell, a sound like the running of water over smooth pebbles.

The Schultz was ill. So it was advertized all over the foyer on huge yellow placards; and a new Brunnhilde was to take her place. The name was unknown; a young singer doubtless, brought forward under the stress of the dilemma. The audience whispered together and the ripple grew louder. In the next Act, the final scene, she would appear. The moments were pa.s.sing.

Suddenly the door at the back of one of the loggias opened, and an usher ran hurriedly in. He gave a hasty glance over the occupants, and then bent and whispered to a gentleman in the rear.

"Monsieur Velasco?"

The gentleman nodded.

"Sir--the Kapellmeister has been seized with a sudden attack of giddiness and is unable to continue with the performance. He begs earnestly that you will conduct the last Act in his place."

"I--?" said Velasco.

"There is no other musician in the House, sir, who could do it. The Kapellmeister is in great distress. The minutes are pa.s.sing."

"Tell him I will come," said Velasco, "I will come." He rose and followed the usher from the loggia.

When the curtain went up for the third Act, a young, slender figure appeared in the orchestra pit, mounting the platform; only his head with the dark hair falling, the arm raised, and the baton, were visible. The House was in darkness; a hush had crept over it.

The Act was progressing.

Already the smoke was in wreaths about the couch of Brunnhilde, hiding it, enveloping the stage in a grey, misty veil. Flames flashed up here and there, licking in tongues of fire about the rocks and the trees.

As they rose and fell and the smoke grew denser, the music became more vivid, intense, full of strange running melodies, until the violins were to the ear as the flames to the eye. The stage was a billow of smoke curling, and the sound of the orchestra was as fire, crackling, leaping.

The smoke grew denser like a thick, grey fog, rolling in wreaths. The music was a riot of tones sparkling, and the hearts of the audience beat fast to the rhythm.

Suddenly through the veil, dim, indistinct, showed the couch of Brunnhilde, shrouded in the billows and puffs of the smoke; the G.o.ddess herself stretched lifeless, asleep; and the form of Siegfried, breaking through the ring of the fire, leaping forward, the sword in his hand.

He sprang to the couch, gazing down at the sleeping Walkure, straight and still, covered with the shimmering steel of the buckler, the spear by her side and the helmet on her head, motionless, glittering in the flare of the flames. "Brunnhilde--Brunnhilde!"

Siegfried lifted his voice and sang to her--he had taken the shield from her now and was bending lower, clasping his hands as if in ecstasy.

The House was like a black pit, silent, without movement or rustle, hanging on the notes, watching the glittering, prostrate form and Siegfried stooping. . . . Presently she stirred. The smoke had grown lighter, more vapoury, translucent. Her form stirred slowly, dreamily, raising itself from the couch. The magic was broken; the G.o.ddess was aroused at last.

Brunnhilde opened her eyes--and half kneeling, half reclining, she stared about her, dazed, half conscious. Siegfried hung over her. The flames, the smoke were dying away. She seemed in a trance; and then, as she gazed at the sky and the sunlight, the rocks and the trees, her lips parted suddenly; she raised her arms, half in bewilderment half in ecstasy, stretching them upwards, and began to sing.

It was like a lark, disturbed by the reapers, rising from its nest in the meadows. The notes came softly, dreamily from her throat; and then as she rose slowly to her feet, clasping the spear, it was as if a floodgate had been opened and the sounds poured out, full, glorious, irresistible, ringing through the darkness and the silence of the House. Drawn to her height she stood, the helmet tipped back on her red-blonde hair, the white robes trailing about her, the spear uplifted. As she sang her throat swelled, her voice came like a torrent: above the wood-winds and strings, the bra.s.s and the ba.s.ses, the single voice soared higher and higher, deeper and richer, full of pa.s.sion and pure.

"Heil dir, Sonne!

Heil dir, Licht!

Heil dir, leuchtender Tag!"

The "Heil" was like a clarion note ringing through s.p.a.ce; like the sound of an echo through mountain pa.s.ses. The audience listened and gazed as under a spell; the orchestra played as it had never played before; the baton waved. Siegfried sang to her and she responded; their voices rising and mingling together, every note a glory.

On the stage, still dim with the smoke and the flames, the light grew stronger, illuminating the helmet of Brunnhilde, the tip of her spear, falling full on her face and her eyes. She drew nearer the foot-lights, still singing, her sight half blinded, gazing unconsciously into the pit of the House and the darkness. She was clasping her spear, and her voice rose high above the violins.

Her eyes sought the baton, the face of her Master; and then as she stood, she trembled suddenly. Her voice died away in her throat; her steps faltered.

The Conductor leaned over the desk, the baton moving mechanically as if the fingers were stiffened. The orchestra played on. A shudder ran over the House.

What had happened? Brunnhilde had stopped singing. Siegfried was trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own. The Walkure stood motionless, transfixed, her eyes riveted on the Conductor. A slight murmur ran over the House: "Was she ill--struck with sudden paralysis?

Or was it the stage-terror, pitiless, irresistible, benumbing her faculties?"

She stood there; and then she stretched out her hands, trembling; her voice came back.

"Velasco!" she cried.

"Kaya--Kaya!"

But the audience thought she had called out to Siegfried, and to encourage her they applauded, clapping and stamping with their feet and their hands. The sound revived her suddenly like the dash of cold water on the face of a sleep-walker.

"I must go on!" she said to herself, "Whatever happens I must go on!"

Her eyes were still riveted.

The face of Velasco was white as death; great drops stood out on his brows, his fingers quivered over the baton. He moved it mechanically, gazing, and he swayed in his seat as if faint and oppressed. The other hand was stretched trembling toward her as if a vision had come in his path suddenly and he was blinded.

Her lips moved again, and his. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to leap to the stage over the foot-lights. Brunnhilde fell back.

"For G.o.d's sake!" whispered Siegfried, "What is it? Are you mad?

Sing--sing! Let out your voice--take up your cue! Go on!"

Again she cried out; but this time her voice was in the tone, and the emotion of it, the longing, rent the air as with pa.s.sion unveiled and bared. She shook the spear aloft in her hands, brandishing it, until the gleam from the flames lit it up like a spark, and fell on her helmet.

Siegfried besought her and she answered, they sang together; but as she answered, singing, her eyes were still fixed, and she sang as one out of herself and inspired.

"Siegfried!"

"Brunnhilde!"

"Siegfried! Siegfried! seliger Held!

Pu Wecker des Lebens, siegendes Licht!"