Catrina Lanovitch
had this trick. She only played a Russian people-song--a simple lay such
as one may hear issuing from the door of any kabak on a summer evening.
But she infused a true Russian soul into it--the soul that is cursed
with a fatal power of dumb and patient endurance. She did not sway from
side to side as do some people who lose themselves in the intoxication
of music. But she sat quite upright, her sturdy, square shoulders
motionless. Her strange eyes were fixed with the stillness of distant
contemplation.
Suddenly she stopped and leaped to her feet. She did not go to the
window, but stood listening beside the piano. The beat of a horse's
hoofs on the narrow road was distinctly audible, hollow and sodden as is
the sound of a wooden road. It came nearer and nearer, and a certain
unsteadiness indicated that the horse was tired.
"I thought he might have come," she whispered, and she sat down
breathlessly.
When the servant came into the room a few minutes later Catrina was at
the piano.
"A letter, mademoiselle," said the maid.
"Lay it on the table," answered Catrina, without looking round. She was
playing the closing bars of a nocturne.
She rose slowly, turned, and seized the letter as a starving man seizes
food. There was something almost wolf-like in her eyes.
"Steinmetz," she exclaimed, reading the address.
Pages:
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134