"You are like a J-Jew!" exclaimed the musician. "You want to bargain! One hundred r-roubles then! There!" He turned to the landlord, stretching out his fat hands, palms upwards. "Absurd isn't it? The f-fellow must be mad!"
"Mad indeed," echoed the landlord, "A miserable, tattered bradjaga, who can't even keep time. You heard yourself, Professor, how he changed the beat and threw the dancers out, every moment or so. They are nothing but tramps; but if you want a fiddle, Bárin, old Dimitri, who is sick in bed with the rheumatism in his legs, he will sell you his for a quarter the price and be thankful. A nice little instrument, fine and well polished, not old and yellow with the back worn!"
He twiddled his fingers in contempt.
Velasco ran lightly a scale over the strings. 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!"
The Professor lifted his fingers to his lips and blew on them as if to warm the ends, which were flat and stubbed from much playing on the strings: "Humph!" he said, "You are only a boy! You are talented, it is true; but what do you know of violinists? You ought to be studying."
"That is true, Bárin," said Velasco humbly. "I am only a poor gypsey; I know nothing!"
"Let me see your hand and your arm," said Petrokoff, "Yes, the shape is excellent; the muscles are good. You need training of course. If you come to the Conservatory at Moscow, I may be able to procure for you a scholarship for one of my classes."
"Ah, Bárin—your Excellence, how kind you are!" murmured the gypsey. "I should like it above all things! Would the Bárin teach me himself?"
"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."