VI
Her music became divine. The Miserere sobbed out into the cold night air—cleansing her soul of hatred—even Peace—a joy—
The air was rent by whistling shells—the organ throbbed under her touch—
Hugh—forever—
There was left only a mass of charred stones—a blackened wall—
A crucifix still erect.
The church had been unregarded by the enemy.
They had passed—leaving desolation—
Death had found Janet at the organ—a free soul—
Several months later in the casualty list of a London newspaper appeared the name of Hugh Brandon.
THE FIFTH SYMPHONY [To R. S. L.]
"———It is clear that the transmutation which the subject of the Allegro undergoes just before the close of the symphony is of the same psychological order as that of the Fate motive—a change from clouds to sunshine, from defeat to triumph."
From Ernest Newman's criticism of Tschaikowsky.
To all outward appearances there was nothing unusual about the rehearsal. The musicians had assembled—and very softly the andante of Tschaikowsky's Fifth Symphony in E minor had begun—a dream-like wave—which little by little swelled—and dropped again—now as a hymn—a plea for unknown happiness.
Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov played. Since the first time she had heard this Slavic Symphony, one snowy night in Moscow, she had loved it. Queer yet beautiful ideas were brought by it into her mind—The String Movement—plentiful crops—full hearts of joy—But how could her heart be joyful? What right ever had she to be playing Russian music? She had deserted—left—talked against Russia, exaggerated the oppressions, the sufferings, had ridiculed all that others held sacred—Dolce—the running waters of Russia in the summer, a clear sky—then the coming of fall with the brown leaves—a gradual decline into winter.—A storm—oh—how she had loved storms—in bygone days—then. And again still weather—the dance of gypsies at a fair—very low—a sound—a murmur—
She scarcely heard the orchestra leader's shrill whistle, his calls of Back to letter B—or letter F—or Strings softer there
It was Russia—wistful—half-fulfilled thoughts.
Longing she had never known before took possession of her soul.
Gloom—and yet the very depth of a Russian's heart, pouring itself out in the mystic symphony.
Then—a lighter mood—again the green woods and water—oh for the happy song of the boatman on the Volga.
Higher and higher rose the trepidation. She was tense—what was it—what was breaking loose within her—Higher and higher rose the waves of the music—
Silence—again the strings—balm—the call of the woods—the odor of pines.
Thunder—rolling thunder—
—and peace—
To onlookers she was but a young musician—a little pale—with strange Slavic eyes—and no human being could perceive the emotions—the mental suffering—as if the cords of her heart were being tightened until they must break—her former self must die that she could reawaken—A conquered self.
The last movement was beginning. Dasha Ivanovna was hardly conscious that she played. The music swept around her—military—a call—to what? It was of marching—a faint—far away—Somewhere—out of childhood days rose the memory of her tiny hands applauding Russian soldiers as they passed—But now like a deserter she had turned away from the once loved country.
Troiki—on glistening snow—
And then what she always termed the Triumphant part of the symphony—where each time she played it, she knew not why—but Aïda—the triumphant entry of the King
Rhadames—
and Cossacks riding madly—furiously
Splendor—
Dasha—no it was not the leader's whistle—it was an inward voice—no one else could hear its piercing, agonizing sound—only the depth of her very being knew—a call—Russia—the land of her fathers that she had deserted.
Cossacks riding in the Steppes—
She dropped her bow and moved trance-like from the hall—
Russia——