XIII

Vera Nikolayevna came home late in the evening and was glad not to find either her husband or her brother in.

However, Jennie Reiter was waiting for her; troubled by what she had seen and heard, Vera rushed to her and cried as she kissed her large beautiful hands, “Please play something for me, Jennie dear, I beg of you.” And at once she went out of the room and sat on a bench in the flower-garden.

She scarcely doubted for a moment that Jennie would play the passage from the sonata asked for by that dead man with the odd name of Zheltkov.

And so it happened. From the very first chords Vera recognized that extraordinary work, unique in depth. And her soul seemed to split in two. She thought that a great love, of the kind which comes but once in a thousand years, had passed her by. She recalled General Anosov’s words, wondering why Zheltkov had made her listen, of all Beethoven, to this particular work. Words strung themselves together in her mind. They fell in with the music to such an extent that they were like the verses of a hymn, each ending with the words: “Hallowed be thy name.”

“I shall now show you in tender sounds a life that meekly and joyfully doomed itself to torture, suffering, and death. I knew nothing like complaint, reproach, or the pain of love scorned. To you I pray: ‘Hallowed be thy name.’

“Yes, I foresee suffering, blood, and death. And I think that it is hard for the body to part with the soul, but’ I give you praise, beautiful one, passionate praise, and a gentle love. ‘Hallowed be thy name.’

“I recall your every step, every smile, every look, the sound of your footsteps. My last memories are enwrapped in sweet sadness – in gentle, beautiful sadness. But I shall cause you no sorrow. I shall go alone, silently, for such is the will of God and fate. ‘Hallowed be thy name.’

“In my sorrowful dying hour I pray to you alone. Life might have been beautiful for me too. Do not murmur, my poor heart, do not. In my soul I call death, but my heart is full of praise for you: ‘Hallowed be thy name.’

“You do not know – neither you nor those around you – how beautiful you are. The clock is striking. It is time. And, dying, in the mournful hour of parting with life I still sing – glory to you.

“Here it comes, all-subduing death, but I say – glory to You!’

With her arms round the slender trunk of an acacia and her body pressed to it, Princess Vena was weeping. The tree shook gently. A wind came on a light wing to rustle in the leaves, as if in sympathy. The smell of the tobacco-plant was more pungent. Meanwhile the marvellous music continued, responding to her grief:

“Be at peace, my dearest, be at peace. Do you remember me? Do you? You are my last, my only love. Be at peace, I am with you. Think of me, and I shall be with you, because you and I loved each other only an instant, but for ever. Do you remember me? Do you? Here, I can feel your tears. Be at peace. Sleep is so sweet, so sweet to me.”

Having finished the piece, Jennie Reiter came out of the room and saw Princess Vera, bathed in tears, sitting on the bench.

“What’s the matter?” asked the pianist.

Her eyes glistening, Vera, restless and agitated, kissed Jennie’s face and lips and eyes as she said, “It’s all right, he has forgiven me now. All is well.”

1911