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It was like the wail of a soul in inferno; a shriek like a devil laughing. "Ha-ha!" cried Velasco. "Now I understand! That is what you were after, Bárin?" Petrokoff eyed him sharply.
I hear hoofs and bells. Run run!" The devil take you. "Who is in the sleigh, Kaya, can you see? Keep low in the shadow and don't move your head." "The Countess, Velasco, and Petrokoff and two other men." "Gendarmes?" "I think they are gendarmes, Velasco. They look from side to side of the road as they pass and urge the driver forward." "Bózhe moi, little one!
Petersburg, but the house was sold out. Bosh I tell you! I wouldn't cross the street to hear a virtuoso like that!" The gypsey gave a queer sound like a chuckle: "He does not play as you do, of course, Bárin!" "I!" cried Petrokoff. He twirled his mustache fiercely. "The Russians are like children, they run after every new plaything. The Pole is a new plaything, a toy bah!
"There is a musician," he was saying, "Perhaps you have heard of him? His name is Velasco." "Bosh!" said Petrokoff in an angry tone, and then he blew his nose loudly. "Velasco bosh! He is only a trickster! There is a fad nowadays among the ladies to run after him." He bowed to the three ladies in turn mockingly, "My friends here tried to get tickets last week in St.
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.
The gypsey stretched out his arms eagerly. "Let me try, Bárin!" he cried, "So so?" The harmonics seemed to squeak in derision; they flatted, and the sound was like the wheels of a cart unoiled. "Stop!" cried Petrokoff, "It is horrible! For the love of heaven, Bradjaga, stop!" The gypsey drew the bow slowly and lingeringly over the flatted notes.
"Certainly," said Petrokoff loftily, "Certainly; but you would have to pass 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, Bárin." "Give the bow to me," said Petrokoff, "Now, let me show you!
Running like a grey-hound, Velasco darted through the corridor and around by the side of the inn to the stable. It was dark there, deserted, and beyond, the snow glittered on the meadows. "Kaya are you there?" "Here, Velasco." "Have you the knapsack?" "Yes yes, here it is." "Take my hand then and run run, Kaya, for the Countess has told Petrokoff; she has told him by now.
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.
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!"
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