The gypsey ran his fingers over the strings in exact imitation of Petrokoff. The tone was thin, and his fingers moved stiffly as if weighted. His face wore an anxious expression. "Dear me!" he exclaimed, "It is more difficult than I imagined. Does every violinist hold his bow like that?"
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!" His fingers flew over the neck of the Stradivarius in harmonics, swift and sure as the flight of a hawk; his bow seemed to leap in his hand, and when he reached the top note of all, high, clear and sweet, he trilled on it softly, swelling out into a tone pure and strange like the sighing of wind in the tree-tops. The hair fell over his brows, and for a moment there was silence in the room.
Kaya had stopped coughing; she had clapped one hand over her mouth to still the sound, and her blue eyes were fixed on one of the ladies, who was staring hard at the gypsey. They were listening intently. Petrokoff stood with his hands clasped over his waistcoat, his head a little to one side, nodding gently from time to time, as if listening to a pupil in his class room.
"Yes," he began, "as I said before, you have talent. I think I could make something of you; but your bowing is bad, very bad; your method is abominable! It would never be allowed in the Conservatory; and your harmonics—bah!"
He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his fat fingers in disgust. "Give me the violin again; it is too good an instrument for a boy. If you come to Moscow, I will give you two hundred roubles, just out of charity. The instrument isn't worth the half, as you know. But I have a good heart, I am interested in your progress. With the two hundred roubles you can pay for your lodging and food. The harmonics—listen! They should sound like this."
He played a few notes on the top of the instrument, shrill and sharp. 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!"