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—