"Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!"
Kaya laughed softly, rubbing her cheek against the down of the bird; whistling and coaxing with her hands. The doves flew about her, lighting, struggling for footing on her shoulder and curls; and she shook her head, laughing:
"Chrr-rp--away with you! Would you pluck my hair and line your nests with my curls! Pischt--away with you!" she flung out the crumbs again.
"There--eat, my pretty ones--eat!"
Below, the great wheel turned and splashed in the water with a whirr, buzzing. Kaya gazed down at it, and as she gazed she forgot the doves, and a strange little shudder went over her, so that the one on her shoulder lifted his wings in affright.
The water was deep in the pool, and there were little ripples under the spokes where the sun-beams were dancing. She dropped on her knees before the window and began to sing, still gazing at the wheel, the doves all about her, pianissimo--on the lower note of the scale, singing up, and then in arpeggios; each note distinct and separate like the link in a chain, pure, soft, hardly above a breath.
As she sang, her voice rose gradually, deepening and increasing in power. The doves pecked the crumbs on the sill, huddling against her and eating from her hands. She began to trill from one note to another, and in trilling, her thoughts ran hither and thither even as her voice, and her eyes wandered from the wheel, resting dreamily on the promenade, and the people walking under the trees.
The rhythm of a mazurka was in her ears and she sang louder, trying to drown it. She was in a great hall vaulted, dome-like with marble columns; violins were playing and the sound rose and fell, invisible as from the clouds. There was the perfume of flowers, heavy and languorous, and s.n.a.t.c.hes of laughter, and the gleaming of jewels. The floor was shining and polished like a mirror, reflecting the forms of the dancers as they whirled to and fro. The light was dazzling and the colour.
She was dancing. Her feet flew in time to the rhythm. . . . Now it was dark and she was lying back on a divan, faint, helpless. The voice of the Prince was in her ears and he was bending over her; his eyes were crossed. . . . Ah, the clock was striking! It was midnight and someone had opened the door! Someone was crossing the room and bending over papers on the desk! . . . There was the sound of a shot! She was holding the pistol in her hand . . . It was smoking and through the vapoury wreathes she saw on the floor a body lying . . . a man on his face with his arms outstretched!
She shuddered again and the doves rose uneasily, circling about her, and lighting with fluttering wings.
"I have tried to atone," she whispered to the birds, "Come back! G.o.d knows--I have tried to atone!"
Then she went on trilling high up in the scale, her eyes gazing dreamily and her hands amongst the doves, stroking them, playing with them.
Suddenly the door opened.
"Is it you, Marta?"
"No, it is I."
The voice was that of a man, deep and harsh, and the steps were firm.
They crossed the room and stopped behind the kneeling figure.
"Hush!" said Kaya, "Not too near, dear Master! You will frighten the doves! See, how they press against me with their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and their wings--and how they flutter! They were hungry this morning, but they have eaten now and are happy. Once they came to me and I had nothing for them. If they knew better, poor doves, it is you they would fly to, and your hands they would eat from; since it is you who have fed them, not I."
"You were practising," said the Kapellmeister, "That is well, Kaya. I heard you from the promenade and I saw you. Your curls were like a halo of gold in the sun, and the doves circled, cooing. One was on your shoulder. Ah, it has gone now--I have startled it! It was close to your cheek, and you were feeding it from your lips."
"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes. It is sweet to be able to feed them. You have fed us both, dear Master."
She turned her head slightly, smiling up at him.
"Turn your head further, Kaya; let me see your face."
"The dove has come back. How can I? There--move a little, my dove--chrr-rp! Go away! No, he clings! See--I cannot! The down on his breast is so soft and his feathers so warm. He presses so close."
"Tell me, little one, how is your voice today? The same--full and strong as it was that night? Are you Kaya to-day, or Brunnhild"?"
The girl smiled again.
"Look at me, child. I have come to talk to you. There is a rehearsal this morning for "Siegfried.""
"Ah--yes!"
"The performance is advertized for tomorrow."
"--Yes?"
"Are you listening, Kaya? Your voice has a dreamy sound. What are you thinking about?"
She started. "Nothing!"
"What are you thinking about? Tell me."
"Russia!"
The Kapellmeister gave a sharp exclamation: "That is why you would not turn your head! It was not the dove, I knew. Are you still--"
"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes, it never leaves me. The curse, the curse of the--Cross!"
She pressed her cheek against the dove, hiding her eyes.
"It must leave you!" said the Kapellmeister roughly, "There is work for you to do! Rouse yourself, Kaya! Drive away the doves now or I will do it myself. If you brood, you will ruin your voice--do you hear me?"
"Pischt!" said Kaya, "Now they are gone--! I will not think any more of Russia to-day."
The Kapellmeister went to the window and laid his hand where the dove had been, pressing the slender shoulder and forcing her to turn.
"I want you," he said, "Now--this morning! I have come for you!"
Kaya rose to her feet slowly: "To sit aloft in the flies and sing while Siegfried seeks me?" She smiled up at him; "You have come for your bird?"
"No."
Her eyes searched his. "No," she faltered, "did I sing badly? I--I thought--"
"Kaya, the Schultz is ill."
The colour rushed to the girl"s face and then fled away again, leaving her pale. "Ill!" she stammered, "You look at me so strangely, dear Master!"
"The Directors have authorized me to wire to Dresden for another soprano."
"Yes--?"
"I refused."
Kaya raised her blue eyes.
"I told them I had a Brunnhilde here on the spot. Can you do it? I have taken the risk. Can you do it? If you sing as you did that night--!"
"I will," cried Kaya, "I will!" She pressed against him like the doves, clasping her hands together. "It is only the one scene, Master; I know it so well, every note! Many times I rehea.r.s.ed it with Helmanoff, many times. Bring me the helmet and the spear--bring me Siegfried!" Her eyes were shining.