First Russian folk music came to her. She, too, was isolated on the steppe of her own nature. The desolate words went voluming out upon the night, in that hushed, dusky gold of the great contralto:
"Lord, hear us!... Lord God, hear us!
We are in bondage:
Like the Volga, in its chains of ice,
We are bound in the bitter ice of sorrow.
Be to us as the springtide that melts the ice,
Arise! Shine! For we sit in darkness
And in the shadow of death.
Lord, hear us! Lord God, hear us!"
She looked up as she ended, to see Amaldi standing in one of the open windows.
"May I come in?" he said. "I shan't be disturbing you?"
She smiled, holding out her hand.
"No. Do come in, Amaldi. You're just the one person who won't disturb me. I'm music-thirsty to-night. Now you shall play for me."
"But not until you've sung more—please," he said quickly.
"Very well. I'll sing to you, then you'll play for me. It seems strange that I've never heard you play. But there were always so many people about. I can't enjoy music—really, in a crowd."
She sang on for half an hour, first more Russian music, then old Italian. He sat where he could see her face but did not seem to look at her. Glancing at him now and then, she knew that the immobility of his dark profile meant intense feeling, not any lack of it. When she would have stopped at last, he begged for one more song. "Something very simple—that you especially care for," he urged.
She thought a moment. Then she said: