II
Dasha Ivanovna was once more in the land of her forefathers. Already she had walked in familiar streets, had seen familiar buildings. Alone—something within her did not need the outside world. Not lonely therefor. And a strange kindling happiness in her soul—a sense of triumph over her former Nihilistic self.
She saw no friends—the ones of former days—Nihilists. They were perhaps hiding in foreign lands—or were in the darker seclusion of some Siberian Prison. But there rose no longing for these friends, no wish at all for them.
No longer was she Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov the Nihilist—the free thinker—
Peace had come to her—she wanted Peace for others—
No longer a desire to see those in power killed—only the dark forests and running waters, the wild flowers in the woods.
Joy filled her—Forgotten lay the haunting fear of other days—the gloom cast by Prison walls—which had seemed ever to draw in upon her.
To live—to let live—to send up Hymns of joy.
It was on the steps of Saint Isaac's Cathedral.
Dared she advance—dared she go in to the splendor of the Altars—to pray—
And ever the Fifth Symphony like a guiding spirit seemed to whisper at her ear—
Triumphant over Defeat
Light out of gloom—
Dasha filled her days with joy. The joy of being alive, of being freed from herself—
She saw the sky and heard the laughter of children in the street—
Somehow—in New York—when she had belonged to the orchestra she had never noticed the sky. A few months more and the snow would come—
A winter in Russia—
The early summer months passed quickly—until that first terrible day of August, 1914, when all the horrors of the world were set loose and the monsters from the under-world of men's minds were stalking unashamed.
If Dasha had put aside her Nihilistic feelings—she laid them still farther from her now.
A purpose to serve her Russia lifted itself high and strong before her soul.
She smiled as she thought of death.