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Updated: May 7, 2025
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.
Just try it, Bradjaga!" Velasco blinked 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! Bózhe 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!
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.
The light died out of the boy's face: "Bárin," he said humbly, "In Moscow you will teach me to play like yourself. I am nothing but an ignorant bradjaga as you see." Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and began to cough: "The dust!" he said, "It has gone to my throat all at once. Eh what? Excuse me a moment, Bárin." Kaya's yellow curls were close to his ear and she whispered something.
It was a cart, roughly set on runners, drawn by a pair of long-haired ponies; while fastened behind was a mare, and two wild-eyed colts following. The peasant in the seat was wrapped in sheep-skin and smoking a short, thick pipe held between his teeth. "Oï Oï! Is that a corpse you hold there, Bradjaga?" he cried. His voice was hardly distinguishable above the roaring of the gale.
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.
The touch of your hands, your hair against my cheek sets my blood on fire! Feel my pulse how it throbs! It is like a storm under the skin! I suffer, little Bradjaga little comrade!" "Don't suffer!" cried the girl, "Let me go, Velasco, let me go! We will sit here together, side by side; be my comrade again, my big brother! Laugh, Velasco! Smile at me!
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!
We earn our living on the road, my comrade and I eh, Bradjaga?" With that, he clapped Kaya on the shoulder, showing his white teeth and laughing: "No baggage, Bárin, no no, only this and that!" He pointed to the knapsack swung from his shoulder and the violin in his hand. "What does this ragamuffin do?" demanded the official, looking narrowly at Kaya, "He is fair for a gypsey."
Petrokoff cleared his throat and his chest swelled a little under his coat. "Bradjaga, I have taught the violin for twenty-five years there is no other way." The gypsey sighed. "My own way is so much simpler," he said, "Look!"
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