The Project Gutenberg eBook ofFuturist StoriesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Futurist StoriesAuthor: Margery Verner ReedRelease date: October 31, 2009 [eBook #30374]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FUTURIST STORIES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Futurist StoriesAuthor: Margery Verner ReedRelease date: October 31, 2009 [eBook #30374]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)
Title: Futurist Stories
Author: Margery Verner Reed
Author: Margery Verner Reed
Release date: October 31, 2009 [eBook #30374]Most recently updated: October 24, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Meredith Bach and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book wasproduced from scanned images of public domain materialfrom the Google Print project.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FUTURIST STORIES ***
NEW YORKMITCHELL KENNERLEY1919
COPYRIGHT 1919 BYMITCHELL KENNERLEY
Moonbeams
The Dream Muff
Rose Petals
In a Field
Incalculable
A Neapolitan Street Song
In Algiers
Candles
Igor
Two Had Lived
The Fifth Symphony
The Mad Artist
Old Scores
The Last
Ashes
Nancy Turner
The Pawn Shop Keeper
Something Provincial
Conflict
That Night His Sorrow Was Lifted
Itwas a glorious winter's night. Through a blue haze one saw the ground, covered with snow, shining under the magical moon. And the trees of the forest were also covered with snow; great clusters glistened in their branches. Almost as light as day. Not a bleak light, but an enchanting one, which dazzled in the cold, brisk air. Into the woods walked the Spirit of Art. As he gazed at the surrounding beauty he grew sad, and wondered why he had never reproduced such splendor—the moon—the snow—Oh, he must try again—Tomorrow he would do better.
Then came the Spirit of History and he too grew sad as he gazed into the quietude of the night. His hands were soiled with blood, with dark hideous crimes. And he asked why he had committed such deeds—with all this beauty around him. Why could he not have likened history to these woods where the snow was white. Tomorrow he would do better.
And then came the Spirit of Philosophy and like the others he wondered why he had never been under the spell of the Moonbeams before—why had he filled the minds of men with entangled masses of dark thought, instead of teaching them the beauty, the enchantment of a night like this. Tomorrow he woulddo better.
The three Spirits met and talked together. They would go back to the cities and begin anew. They would bring the spell of the woods back with them and teach men unknown things.
A NewEra was about to be born.
Morningdawned cold and raw, a bleak gray light shone in the deserted streets. The three Spirits returning from their wandering all too soon forgot the magic spell of the woods—the snow—the Moon—and fell to work once more among the sordid things of the day; making Art and History and Philosophy only grayer—darker—
Andin the woods where all was beauty, the Moonbeams shone only for the fairies as they danced under the trees, and now and then for a wistful human soul that had strayed into the splendor of the night.
Onemore day of horror had ended for Russia. At this hour once the lamps along the Neva would have been lighted, the laughter of sleigh-riders would have resounded over the snow. But now the streets were dark—deserted save by some wandering homeless people, seeking refuge in the night.
Noone seemed to know exactly what had happened—or the cause—
Therewas no ruler—no order—
Darknessand chaos.
A girl, perhaps of twelve, sat huddled in a ragged shawl on the steps of a closed church.
Therehad been a time when a fire burned—
A mother—a father—
Brothers—
Theyhad gone—no one knew where. The mother was royalist.
Sheused to sew for a great lady—a Princess.
Perhapsthe jailers of a prison could tell where she was.
Once—in the life that was only a memory—was it real—or was the biting cold—was the hunger what had always been—her mother had taken her to the house of the great lady—
Hereyes had opened in childish wonder, as the Princess took her from room to room.
Ona great couch of palest blue, among cushions that were all lace and blue and pink—a muff.
Ithad been carelessly thrown down—she had loved it.
Hergreatest desire had been to touch it—to feel the soft gray fur on her face.
A piercingwind blew from the frozen river—the muff—if it would come it would keep her warm—
Shewould put her hand in it and hold it to her heart.
Throughhalf-closed lids she saw the muff—curving and swaying in the air—like a gray bird.
Itwas looking for her—there were so many freezing children in the streets—she was small for her age—
Howwarm—how kind of the Princess to send the muff.
Maybemother will soon be home from work—we can have supper—
Boriswill come from school—
ButBoris lay dying—prisoner in the enemy's land.
Whena pale sun struggled to shine down on the dirty streets—on the confusion and sorrow of that Russian city—an old Priest—dying with all the rest—of sorrow for his land—found the frozen body of a little girl—with hands clasped over her heart—a faint smile on her upturned face.
Thirtyyears had passed.
Thirtyyears that I had spent in vainly trying to overcome the love and hatred which consumed me. However occupied I was with the pressing affairs of my almost over-filled life I was conscious of an undercurrent of despair—the despair that I had felt when Eve told me she no longer loved me.
Wewere engaged.
Whethershe really loved me, or whether it was only a girlish fancy I could not tell. But the day was set for our wedding and was not far off when one Sunday afternoon I went to her house for tea.
Themahogany table in the library was covered with fallen rose petals—the roses he had sent her. Although no other detail of the room has remained in my memory, I still can see the rose petals covering the polished surface. By some inexplicable phenomenon those pink petals were fixed forever in my mind.
I leftthat part of the country and eventually lost all trace of Eve.
Thirtyyears later I had a professional engagement with a client.
Theman was ill with a cold and asked me to come to his house—
I wasshown into a large, stately drawing-room. Great portraits were on the walls, there was massive furniture, fine oriental rugs. A fire blazed on the hearth.
ThenI perceived it—the great bowl of roses with fallen petals—scattered over the table
Likea knife they went through my soul——
Rosepetals——
Eve—the ring she had returned, which lay in some dark recess of my desk——
Thedoor opened and a tall slim girl advanced—
EveI cried—my eyes blurred till I could hardly see.
Witha strange, somewhat strained laugh, the girl replied that she had not been named for her mother, but it was often said that she was indeed her mother's living portrait.
Thenshe drew aside a heavy curtain—Before my dimmed eyes was a picture of Eve—
MyEve—
I fledfrom the house.
Thepurpose of my visit claimed not an instant of my thoughts. Nor did Eve.
Northe past.
Rosepetals only filled my mind.
I learnedfrom a friend that Eve had been drowned years before in the St. Lawrence River—
Shehad left her husband and baby girl for another love.
Rosepetals—
Rosepetals everywhere.
A childof three or four was playing in the tall grass among the nodding buttercups and daisies. I watched her as she played. She seemed a fit companion of the flowers, this sweet babe. I longed to feel the touch of her little fingers on my face.
But as I advanced to where she was playing I stopped abruptly with the sense of sudden chill. My heart even grew cold.
Was I having a vision, was it an intuition of the future—or was this a meaningless phantom!
I had been reading of late a modern philosopher whose translator had made much use of that somewhat ghostly word. Perhaps that was what had given rise to this inexplicable thing. For as I stood there watching the child there flashed across my consciousness a changing vision of her destiny.
It was terrible.
It struck me that it might be better if she could be taken now while innocent and sweet.
I caught myself back from the act of judging life and death.
I had been the momentary victim of a freakish fancy.
I gazed at the child again, and I saw a strange thing, as clearly as I see you now.
She, a young woman, was standing amidst scattered wilted flowers, with parted lips and wide horrified eyes. It seemed a land far off, some land under the burning sun.
She cried out, a cry of anguish. She was there to hide from herself and tortured by the memory of what she once had been.
I saw her again, this time on the sea, still trying to escape from herself, from the tyranny of her lost innocence.
And then I saw her in a rapid succession of scenes, again and again—gambling places, drinking,—sometimes listless and distraught—sometimes forced and eager—with wonderful, costly jewels. But they were too heavy. The price of them was weighing upon her soul.
Thena grave, alone under leaden skies of some Northern country. No flowers now, only the moaning wind—the cold rain.
I liftedthe child in my arms and kissed her.
Itwas one of those gray days so frequent in Paris in the late fall. A drizzling rain was coming down through the bare branches of the trees and a cold mist was rising from the Seine.
I feltout of tune with the universe.
Therain irritated me.
Tocheer my drooping spirits I took refuge in the Louvre.
ThereI found no solace in the cold white statues of the lower floor. I ascended one of the broad staircases—the headless beauty of the Victoire de Samothrace only made me shudder.
I passedthrough the halls lined on either side with the masterpieces of French and Italian and Spanish Artists.
Onein my depressed state of mind had no right to be there where faces of Madonnas smile down as one passes and deserve a freer look than mine to turn on them.
I wanderedout again into the street.
I walkedup the quai which winds along the river and where the quaint well-known bookshelves are built displaying to the passerby rare old books and piles of rubbish alike.
Despitethe rain several students were eagerly looking through these stores of hidden wealth.
Asthe Parisian would say ils bouquinaient.
SoI too began to pick up at random several old volumes.
AnEnglish one caught my glance—
Itwas a copy of Browning—old and tattered—and pencil-marked. Turning to the fly-leaf I saw a name, written in a woman's hand—
Victoria O'Fallon—Paris 18—
I lookedup—and saw far back into now almost forgotten years of my life and there flashed into unaccountable and extraordinary vividness in my mind the remembrance of a western mining camp and of a girl, Vicky O'Fallon. She was a little red-headed beauty, who dreamed and talked of nothing but the stage, who longed to study and to travel, to release her life from the coarse and rude environment in which she lived.
AndI questioned almost passionately, could that little, discontented Irish girl be the same one whose name on an old yellowing page was intriguing my thought? How came her book here among these old volumes? Had some strange fate transplanted her to Paris in the year 18—? Had her dreams come true and was she on the stage in this great city of the world? I asked of the bookseller how this copy of Browning had comeinto his hands. He did not know.
I couldnot dismiss this girl, I could not forget the book.
Somewhere, somehow she had read Browning. She obsessed my mind.
Shepossessed my waking hours. I wandered from theatre to theatre, watching at the stage doors, and saw play after play, always in the hope of discovering this girl I had scarcely known. I studied hotel registers, old play-bills, and always old books. I had not thought of her for years and now I desired more than anything else in life to see once more her dancing blue eyes and hear again her laughter.
Butit was all in vain that I scanned faces in the streets, in railway stations, in passing cabs. I could find no trace of Victoria O'Fallon.
Yearspassed.
I wastravelling one dull English day from London to Glasgow. In the railway carriage toward night I fell into desultory talk with a sad uneasy looking man who shared the compartment with me. At some turn in the conversation he told me his name was O'Fallon.
Theworn copy of Browning seemed almost to take form in my hand—and Victoria—her dream, her hair, her enchanting laugh.
Formoments I was too dazed to speak. Then I managed to ask if by any chance he was related to a girl Victoria O'Fallon. He stared at me in silence, while a look of hatred and despair distorted his face.
Finallyin a choked voice he breathed rather than spoke—
I amjust out of prison because of Victoria O'Fallon—she was my niece. I sent her to Paris. She was on the stage, just one night—I struck her—she fell on a chair—her back. She's dead now.
Hegazed vaguely out into the gathering darkness.
Thenhe seemed to remember me.
Therewas a French Count he began, but his voice sank into silence.
I satas if I had been turned to stone.
Alone—
A cityfull of lights, of pleasure. The sea singing to itself as it rolled quietly into the harbor. A glow of light on distant Vesuvius. Gay throngs of people passing to and fro in the summer evening. Alone. For the first time in her life.
A heavyheart—there was no joy.
Theyhad come to Naples on their wedding journey. Her brief happiness had been taken—torn from her.
Ashes.He—cold—rigid—lay in the adjoining room.
Twocandles burned. A nun prayed. Monica leaned out of the window.
Throughher tears she saw a star shining in the night.
A starof sorrow.
Thesea—they had gone together on its blue waves to Capri—to Sorrento—
Wasit some terrible nightmare—would she awaken and find him near.
Froma distant street came the sound of music—gay—lively—a Neapolitan street song.
Howcould there be joy. The sound was agony. An organ might have soothed.
Hadthere ever been a time when gay music delighted.
O Sole miosang the clear voices of the street singers. They drew nearer—and stopped under the window.
Monica'swounded inward self cried out for silence
Theworld was drear. There should be no joyful singing.
Shelooked down absently. A young girl stood a little apart from the singers. Monica noticed her—and their tearful eyes met.
Thensingers also could know sorrow.
Suddenly—her own seemed lightened.
Monica'ssoul surged forward. She wanted to comfort, to help this brown-eyed girl. Perhaps her grief was harder to bear.
Oneof the men stepped toward the girl and pushed her rudely.
Singhe commanded.
O Padre mio—she broke into sobs. The singers moved on to another street.
Monicahad read into another soul.
Deepcalling unto deep.
Moonlight—the still waters of the ocean—
Thedeck of a ship—
Romanceand beauty—
Thegreat liner sailed near the northern coast of Africa. On the deck they had become engaged—the moonlight shone on them.
Duskand bitter cold. A young woman paced up and down in the snow, waiting the coming of a train.
Itwas a small town in the Interior of Russia—of the Russia torn by wars and rebellions at home. A sorrow-stricken land.
Themystery, the romance of the night—the distant shores of Africa—seemed still upon her. She could almost feel the murmur of the water as it splashed against the boat.
Andthe next day—Algiers—the quaint streets—the mosques—flowers—and white robed Arabs.
Veryquietly they had been married in the Cathedral which bears the name of a whole continent.
Notre Dame d'Afrique.
Thesun had smiled as it shone on the city by the sea.
Itgrew colder.
A traincame into sight on the vast field of snow.
Onthat train the man she loved and had married was coming to her.
Thatenchanted period in Algiers—He was returning—perhaps a wreck of his once splendid self—a cripple
War
Ithad shattered homes—brought skeletons—where once children laughed.
Broughtfamine—once birds had eaten crumbs.
War—
Horror—dismay
Shewaited
Hiseyes were aghast—eyes that had seen death—murder—horror—side by side—
Therewas no more laughter. He took Anna into his arms. Then the report was not true. He had not given his right arm.
Anna, he whispered, My brave Anna
I havebeen thinking of Algiers, she murmured. We planned to have sunshine—and roses—even among the snows of our country. But we faced blood—blood on the snows of our forests—
Ivan, it is bitter cold. Do not go out—into the night—
ToAfrica. The moon will be making golden streaks upon the water. A rose will be blooming in our garden—his eyes were vacant.
Thenit was not his arm he had given for Russia—it was—
A crypierced the cold air.
Theweight of a dead body resounded.
I wonderwhat that was, Ivan mused—
Whichis the shortest way to the Cathedral——
TheseArab streets are so steep—
Beforea statue of Joan of Arc, in a little country church, a child knelt in prayer.
Ohprotect my papa—the little one prayed.
Shelighted a candle—offered it to the Maid of France.
A younggirl prayed at the feet of the Saint. She burned a candle.
For André—for his safety.
Theinvaders entered the village,—heeding neither church nor ground of the dead.
Theyripped open shallow graves to show the living they had power—even over those who had gone. They killed the priest. And the nuns, even, from the school.
Theydamaged.
Destroyed—
Thechurch caught fire. The candles, burning before the Saint of Domremy, blazed into one huge flame. It shot up to the roof. And seemed to cry—
O Joan of Arc—come back—France needs you.
Thechild—
AnAngel of Heaven
Theyoung girl who had prayed for André—twoofficers had taken her.
Shestruggled—
A sword—
Theflames of the burning village had revealed it.
Monsieur l'Abbéhad said suicide was sin—but surely God would forgive—
Shepierced the sword into her white flesh—blood flowed to the ground.
Little foolmuttered the maddened officer.
Hewent back to the village—for more destroying.
A stonefrom a burning house—
Hedied with an oath.
ButAndré, weeks before, had died with prayer upon his lips—a thought for his sweet betrothed.
Onward
Tokill
Pillage
Onlya few days before the lighted candles of a chapel. A young monk in prayer. Quietude in his soul. The brown habit—the crucifix lay forgotten.
Themaddening din of battle. Its fury burned his soul.
Hehad been left an orphaned child. At the monastery.
Hisname was Igor. Some whispered he was the son of a great nobleman.
Noneknew for sure.
Atfirst his clean soul rebelled at the thought of war, his dark eyes flashed.
Thoushalt not kill called from afar—but the cannons deafened him
Theyentered the courtyard—into the castle hall.
Hadits dwellers fled along the muddy roads and fields of Belgium
No
Somewomen still—
A youngone, watching for escape
Anotherwith graying hair and soft eyes. She had stayed. Her sins perhaps would be forgiven on the Altar of Sacrifice. Burning anguish.
Shehad sinned against God.—Against her husband. Long ago.
Remorsestill clung in her heart.
Igordrew back—but was pushed on by others, rude, boisterous, toward the wine cellars.
Thoushalt not kill faintly—but a breaking bottle dimmed the sound.
Thewine heated, wakened dormant senses.
Morewine
Withshouts and cries the tottering men came from the cellar—Laughed at the woman with graying hair
Shewas shielding a girl whose eyes resembled Igor's. The girl who had watched to escape.
Andcould not
Theuniform, the sabre—
Gonewas the memory of a brown habit.
Hecame nearer. Was it a woman—
Heclasped her. Her soft hair brushed his face.
Othersoldiers came—dragged her from him. Fought over her like powerful beasts, heeding not the mother—
Igor—protect her
Ina drunken rage he caught the girl to the open window—
I'llkill her he screamed. You—who seem to know my name.
Thecrime was spared him.
Herlifeless body slipped from his arms.
Igor, gasped the mother, You have killed—
I'llkill you!—the wine had infuriated—he lifted his sabre—
Stop—you are my son
Dazed—he heard the words but understood not.
A nightof drunkenness, of horror, had passed in the Belgian chateau.
Thecaptors had damaged—broken—destroyed.
Thesun was setting on a second day—when Igor awoke.
Thefirst time in his life he awakened from drink. He reached out expecting to find the rough wall of the monastery
Hefelt a dead body—the sharp edge of a sabre—
Where—
Ordershad come
Thearmy
Hadthere been battles—
—Andslowly memory returned—
Stop—you are my son.
Whohad said it—was it long ago—No. Only after the wine cellar—
Hesat up—on the floor—where drunkenness had overcome him.
Thehorrible memory of his crime swept over him.
Hismother—
Heseized the body and gazed at the staring eyes. Then this was the remorse the older monks had told him—had been his father's—
Andhe—her son—had plunged his sabre into her heart
Hisown was bursting.
Andthis girl. He had not killed her—she had died—
Wasshe—his sister—only of a different father—
Weare through—burn
A hardline played on the lips of the commander
Theflames leapt from room to room—
Igor—
Thesmoke—it was overcoming him—
Hismother—
Hehad forgotten how to pray
Anunutterable abyss.
Thehorror of war
Thefire blazed upward—smoke filled the room—
There'sthe bell—he staggered to his feet—It is ringing
TellBrother John to light the candles—he walked into the flames—
I am coming.
Passionatelymusical—Janet Knott had been sent abroad to study.
Homesickand weary she wandered about in a strange city, knowing not even the language.
Thegray sky—the grayer buildings. Was there not in this city a kindly soul—one she could talk to—confide in—
Ina narrow street—suddenly the rich deep tones of an organ reached her soul—
Builtin among great buildings a small Church. There at least she could find comfort—and the organ.
Wasit a Requiem—minor chords—the keys seemed to sob under the pressure of withered hands.
Janetsobbed too. She was homesick. Lonely—
Themusic stopped and the old organist came down and spoke with her. He asked why she was crying.
Yourmusic is so sad, she whispered—
Ah, my child, that is life—I am told to compose a Requiem—
Whatyouth, filled with the joy of living, could play these minor chords.
I toowas young once—A student at the University. I loved life then—
I danced—composed only waltzes—sang love songs. But now—sorrow has played on the chords of my heart—to teach me these deeper tones—to teach me music for the Passion—for the Crucifixion.
Youmust learn, my child, that through sorrow men accomplish great things.
Whenthey weep they send out tones into the world that men remember and cherish.
Beethovenlived and suffered—and has left to the world things of immortal greatness.
Butnow—go—else I shall sadden you beyond your years——
SlowlyJanet walked through the darkening streets. The words of the organist filled her mind. She felt prophetically her heart must pass through fire.
Wouldshe be strong enough—or would weakness—desire for joy—conquer and kill the power within.
Thehomesick girl of seventeen has given place to a worldly wise young woman of twenty-five.
Nomore longing for the land across the seas. The power within still sleeps—Paris. With its pleasure haunts, its lights, its theatres—
Janet Knott—the center of an admiring coterie—she plays light music—waltzes. The joy of being alive—the whirl of a great city—subdued laughter of groups of men and women walking in the moonlight—the flowering chestnut trees—the roses—
Racesof Longchamps—gay colors—a world of excitement.
Life—
Itswaves swept over her.
Shehad chosen between this and art—fulfillment of the Soul.
Sometimesshadows of her power rose—beckoned.
Sheconsoled these moments with coquetry. A success—flowers
Thewar broke out. Excitement still filled her. It would soon be over.
Somethingnew—
Then—one by one all the men she had known, flirted, danced with, left for the front. To die. That the enemy should not pass.
Parisin danger. Death and sorrow near.
Thebest in Janet Knott gradually awakened. A desire to help grew until she could contain it no longer.
OneSunday evening she went to Notre-Dame for Benediction—Kneeling in the shadows of the pillars she heard the organ—sad agonizing chords
Sorrowhas played on the chords of my heart to teach me these deeper tones—
Thememory of the little church, of the old organist—of herself, the former Janet, the homesick child.
Hergift—was it dead or only sleeping? Could she awaken it—Spin a new life on the webs of war—
Theshadow of the Janet of seventeen wept over the wasted years.
Thereseemed to be no end. The war-filled years crept slowly onward, each day bringing more sorrow—more death.
Janetwas torn in two.
Thehuman pleasure-loving side lay bleeding—dying inch by inch.
Theother, with tones of deepest beauty, rose above it, sighing that it must take such tragedy to break down its prison bars—that it might live.
Itrose—comforting Janet in many a weary hour—comforting the wounded, the dying. In a village church which had been turned into a base hospital she often played—and as they listened some pain was eased, some picture rose of happy fields, of homes. Would they see them again—
Inthis tragedy of nations she had found herself.Found the purpose of her life. Her art had come into its own—had comforted.
Deathfrom a shell might take her—as it took thousands each day—but she was fulfilling the mission of her soul.
Onenight the Church Hospital lay sleeping. Very softly Janet crept to the organ loft—softer still she played to the moonlight.
Hewas rapidly improving. His wounds had not been serious. Something—very soft, faint—woke him. For a minute he could not recall his surroundings—and he rose up—but a sharp pain in his shoulder brought back the memory of the trenches, of the horror—
I mustbe dying—I hear faint music——
Themoon shone on something white—
Anangel—
Fullyawakening to his surroundings Hugh Brandon realized that it was not death—not an angel—
Hewould go and find out for himself—
Janetbarely touched the keys. Softer and softer grew the tones. He came nearer—fascinated as if by a magic presence.
Theireyes met—in the moonlight. They knew thatno matter what happened to the rest of the world—no matter what happened to their own bodies—their souls were met for all Eternity.
Itwas a flash from the unconscious—one of those strange illuminations which occur perhaps once in a hundred lifetimes.
Playon, he whispered. Play for me—for England—whose son I am
Atnoon when they had eaten—Hugh and Janet slipped away. She played for him. The tones were richer than before. Into the sadness had been poured the burning heat of pure love.
Theyhad both known what they had thought was love,—among flowers, dances, the lovely but artificial things of life—
Buthere—among the dying—blood, privation, life divested of its mantles and laid bare—the true love sprang up between these two. Something more than love. A perfect understanding of each—like the treble and the base of a symphony—
Inthe still hours of twilight Hugh and Janet would sit in the organ loft together, speaking the enchanted language only lovers know—made dearer by thephantom of separation ever near them.
Dearest, when the Regiment has called me back, play each day at twilight—the Miserere. If—in the trenches—I shall know your soul is calling to mine—if, beyond, my soul will drink from the depths of yours——
Snowwas falling.
Goodbye, dear, he whispered—
Noweven the organ could not calm. She had tasted the sweet of life—and it had been torn away. For what—
Suddenlyhate possessed her—hate for this man who would rule the world—causing whole nations to rise up against him to defend their soil—hatred for the power that had brought despair into unknown lives—
Broughtmurder into peaceful souls.
Thedays followed each other in bleak sameness.
Shemoved among the wounded—a shadow self—
Butat twilight each day, Janet lived. She played the Miserere—with her soul. Then again—the moving dazed form would return to help the men lying on mattresses where once peasants had knelt in prayer—
Hermusic became divine. The Miserere sobbed out into the cold night air—cleansing her soul of hatred—even Peace—a joy—
Theair was rent by whistling shells—the organ throbbed under her touch—
Hugh—forever—
Therewas left only a mass of charred stones—a blackened wall—
A crucifixstill erect.
Thechurch had been unregarded by the enemy.
Theyhad passed—leaving desolation—
Deathhad found Janet at the organ—a free soul—
Severalmonths later in the casualty list of a London newspaper appeared the name of Hugh Brandon.
"———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 runningwaters 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
Itwas Russia—wistful—half-fulfilled thoughts.
Longingshe 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.
Higherand 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—
Bluebellson the grass.
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—
Andthen 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 beingknew—a call—Russia—the land of her fathers that she had deserted.
Cossacksriding in the Steppes—
Shedropped her bow and moved trance-like from the hall—
Russia——
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.
Shesaw 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.
Nolonger was she Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov the Nihilist—the free thinker—
Peacehad come to her—she wanted Peace for others—
Nolonger a desire to see those in power killed—onlythe dark forests and running waters, the wild flowers in the woods.
Joyfilled her—Forgotten lay the haunting fear of other days—the gloom cast by Prison walls—which had seemed ever to draw in upon her.
Tolive—to let live—to send up Hymns of joy.
It was on the steps of Saint Isaac's Cathedral.
Daredshe advance—dared she go in to the splendor of the Altars—to pray—
Andever the Fifth Symphony like a guiding spirit seemed to whisper at her ear—
Triumphantover Defeat
Lightout of gloom—
Dashafilled her days with joy. The joy of being alive, of being freed from herself—
Shesaw 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 winterin Russia—
Theearly 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.
IfDasha had put aside her Nihilistic feelings—she laid them still farther from her now.
A purposeto serve her Russia lifted itself high and strong before her soul.
Shesmiled as she thought of death.
Snowand cold—suffering—starvation—in the forests the birds were dead—
Littlechildren were dead—
Thestream of fugitives increased as the days passed—Starvation—death—
Triumphantover Defeat still rang in Dasha's ears—Some day it would come—
Triumph—
Sheclothed a child here—
Comforteda mother there—
Andstill they came—over the snow and corpses—through the woods—fugitives everywhere—
Dashaworked—worked with all her heart—fed—clothed—
Outinto the snows, into the storms to look for the wanderers and bring them to a shelter—
Have mercy on my soul—she whispered—Forgive—
TheAndante far away—calling—Dasha—a reward—
Dasha Ivanovnadied on a bed of snow—On her dead face was a triumphant sweet look.
Thefugitives wept and prayed as they buried her in the woods.
Whensummer came bluebells grew over her grave.