Chapter 2

SHE had chosen between this and art--fulfillment of the Soul.

SOMETIMES shadows of her power rose--beckoned.

SHE consoled these moments with coquetry. A success--flowers

* * * * *

THE war broke out. Excitement still filled her. It would soon be over.

SOMETHING new--

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.

PARIS in danger. Death and sorrow near.

THE best in Janet Knott gradually awakened. A desire to help grew until she could contain it no longer.

ONE Sunday evening she went to Notre-Dame for Benediction--Kneeling in the shadows of the pillars she heard the organ--sad agonizing chords

SORROW has played on the chords of my heart to teach me these deeper tones--

THE memory of the little church, of the old organist--of herself, the former Janet, the homesick child.

HER gift--was it dead or only sleeping? Could she awaken it--Spin a new life on the webs of war--

THE shadow of the Janet of seventeen wept over the wasted years.

III

THERE seemed to be no end. The war-filled years crept slowly onward, each day bringing more sorrow--more death.

JANET was torn in two.

THE human pleasure-loving side lay bleeding--dying inch by inch.

THE other, 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.

IT rose--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--

IN this tragedy of nations she had found herself. Found the purpose of her life. Her art had come into its own--had comforted.

DEATH from a shell might take her--as it took thousands each day--but she was fulfilling the mission of her soul.

IV

ONE night the Church Hospital lay sleeping. Very softly Janet crept to the organ loft--softer still she played to the moonlight.

HE was 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 MUST be dying--I hear faint music----

THE moon shone on something white--

AN angel--

FULLY awakening to his surroundings Hugh Brandon realized that it was not death--not an angel--

HE would go and find out for himself--

JANET barely touched the keys. Softer and softer grew the tones. He came nearer--fascinated as if by a magic presence.

THEIR eyes met--in the moonlight. They knew that no matter what happened to the rest of the world--no matter what happened to their own bodies--their souls were met for all Eternity.

IT was a flash from the unconscious--one of those strange illuminations which occur perhaps once in a hundred lifetimes.

PLAY on, he whispered. Play for me--for England--whose son I am

* * * * *

AT noon 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.

V

THEY had both known what they had thought was love,--among flowers, dances, the lovely but artificial things of life--

BUT here--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--

IN the still hours of twilight Hugh and Janet would sit in the organ loft together, speaking the enchanted language only lovers know--made dearer by the phantom 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----

SNOW was falling.

GOODBYE, dear, he whispered--

NOW even the organ could not calm. She had tasted the sweet of life--and it had been torn away. For what--

SUDDENLY hate 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--

BROUGHT murder into peaceful souls.

THE days followed each other in bleak sameness.

SHE moved among the wounded--a shadow self--

BUT at 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--

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--

BLUEBELLS on 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--

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----

II

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.

SHE saw 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.

NO longer was she Dasha Ivanovna Tortsov the Nihilist--the free thinker--

PEACE had come to her--she wanted Peace for others--

NO longer a desire to see those in power killed--only the dark forests and running waters, the wild flowers in the woods.

JOY filled her--Forgotten lay the haunting fear of other days--the gloom cast by Prison walls--which had seemed ever to draw in upon her.

TO live--to let live--to send up Hymns of joy.

* * * * *

It was on the steps of Saint Isaac's Cathedral.

DARED she advance--dared she go in to the splendor of the Altars--to pray--

AND ever the Fifth Symphony like a guiding spirit seemed to whisper at her ear--

TRIUMPHANT over Defeat

LIGHT out of gloom--

DASHA filled her days with joy. The joy of being alive, of being freed from herself--

SHE saw 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 WINTER in Russia--

THE early 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.

IF Dasha had put aside her Nihilistic feelings--she laid them still farther from her now.

A PURPOSE to serve her Russia lifted itself high and strong before her soul.

SHE smiled as she thought of death.

III

SNOW and cold--suffering--starvation--in the forests the birds were dead--

LITTLE children were dead--

THE stream of fugitives increased as the days passed--Starvation--death--

TRIUMPHANT over Defeat still rang in Dasha's ears--Some day it would come--

TRIUMPH--

SHE clothed a child here--

COMFORTED a mother there--

AND still they came--over the snow and corpses--through the woods--fugitives everywhere--

DASHA worked--worked with all her heart--fed--clothed--

OUT into the snows, into the storms to look for the wanderers and bring them to a shelter--

* * * * *

Have mercy on my soul--she whispered--Forgive--

THE Andante far away--calling--Dasha--a reward--

DASHA IVANOVNA died on a bed of snow--On her dead face was a triumphant sweet look.

THE fugitives wept and prayed as they buried her in the woods.

WHEN summer came bluebells grew over her grave.

THE MAD ARTIST

FAINTLY--

SPEAK, speak--Angel or demon, or both, speak to me before I throw you into the sea.

THE storm raged in all its fury around the house, and the rain beat down--

SPEAK, or I'll break you into a thousand pieces.

BUT the only answer was the smile of the Angel with the uplifted eyes and the outspread wings as if she was about to ascend to Heaven. The marble Angel that was to have been his masterpiece! His last gift to man was now his hated treasure.

NIGHT came on and with it the fury of the storm increased--and still the mad artist now implored, now threatened. The Angel smiled and looked Heavenward.

WHEN I chose a model for my masterpiece, he murmured, she was beautiful, but had not the face of that Angel. How came I to copy the image in my heart and not the living one that for months was each day here in my studio.

THE storm raged without, and within the artist groped for light, clung to the shreds of memory. His madness was increasing, his head seemed miles away. What had he been thinking of just then, had he seen a woman rise from a tomb--no, it was the Angel.

HE must get to work and finish it. But it was finished. Vaguely he remembered dismissing his model.

SPEAK--with a faint cry of anguish he rushed to the statue. Speak, image of my lost Louise! But no, you are cold marble, you have no life, no warmth--

STILL, it must be the girl I loved. It is her mouth, her eyes.

THE wind moaned around the house, seeming to call the name of Louise. The mad artist wept, and groped for light, for memory. Vaguely he could see, 'way back in some half-forgotten period, a nurse leaning over his cot. The noise of battle still rang in his ears--but that was all past, in his other life--now there were phantoms and the image in his heart of the lost Louise. Why had he chosen that name. That name made him think of running water. Where was reverie--Oh yes, it was the statue--well it must die. Never should men see his masterpiece that had cost him all the joy of life. For he had likened the features of the Angel after Louise.

SPEAK, demon, he implored. Take on a woman's voice.

* * * * *

THE storm had ceased and the sun shone brightly on the wet grass and the flowers of a day in June. One ray peeped in at the window of the studio and saw the Angel broken by hammer and chisel on the floor. Its smiling face seemed to forgive all the madness of the night.

FROM what strange nightmare was he awakening? At the sight of his loved and hated Angel broken at his feet, his senses were slowly returning--But with what pain they came--as if his head must break.

HE could not think yet--he would later on. He had been mad--he remembered the doctor saying so--In France--shell shock.

* * * * *

IT had come over him as he stood by the gate of the Chateau. Then a hospital. Afterward all had been darkness, a horrible groping amid a thousand broken memories, phantoms which had shrouded him. But now it was over. He was sane--life, life! Oh what joy to live again, as one risen from the tomb--he would travel out into the world--far from his studio.

THE attendant entered bringing lunch to the mad artist and found him dead, his lips pressed to the marble ones of his Angel, the image of Louise.

SHE was only one of his many phantoms.

OLD SCORES

A NIGHT of untold beauty.

COBWEBS on the heavens.

A GRAY winter sky, brightened by the moon shining through it.

BARE branches of hundreds of trees interlacing their silvery boughs.

AND a cottage with thatched roof and square leaded panes--a setting for romance, for dreams of visionary splendor.

IS the master at home, asked a strange woman of the old man servant.

HE has not yet returned.

THEN I will wait for him.

AND despite the protests of the servant, Donna Maria entered the room. It was a story and a half in height.

THERE was a huge fireplace, and everywhere, without arrangement, in the happy disorder of a studio, were canvases and palettes.

ANOTHER setting for romance.

BUT romance--at least for tonight--has not found its way to the studio in the woods.

* * * * *

THERE was perhaps some intuition, some forewarning of disaster in the mind of Robert Hale. He walked abstractedly, untouched by the beauty of the night.

HE was deep in the inner experience of the conception of a new picture.

HE entered his house.

THERE is a woman, sir.

A WOMAN----but I want to be alone.

THE old servant slept--roused for a moment by the closing of a door.

SHE'S gone, he muttered--and slept again.

* * * * *

THROUGH the splendor of the night they went--through its mystery, its beauty.

SHE, tense, frightened lest her power should fail on the verge of success--

HE in a kind of trance, with wavering mind--strange thoughts--nothing clear--a haze

THEY stopped under a great oak.

DO you remember your Egyptian Dancer asked Donna Maria for the hundredth time.

EGYPTIAN Dancer, he answered tonelessly. No, I tell you I killed him.

WITH a sense of victory she led him on through the night.

HER mind incessantly repeated to the overpowered mind of the artist

YOU killed him------You killed him.

THE alienist gave his testimony. The prisoner was mad. Clearly.

TO every question he responded--I killed him.

AND endlessly the court room resounded with dull, monotonous voices

SOME pleading for--some against the artist.

DONNA MARIA was satisfied.

SHE would go away and Robert--well, no matter--

SHE hated him.

HE had scorned her advances--her coquettish smiles, years ago in Rome when he was a student.

SHE had been unable to forget. Her pride was like an open wound.

HALE was acquitted.

BUT his mind was gone. A harmless type of insanity expressing itself in vague reiterations of a fixed idea.

DAY after day he walked in the open--Once on and on, down a slope. He slipped. And made a violent clutch to save himself. The cold waters of the river closed over him. Shock and sudden pain--the penetrating pain that comes with returning consciousness--

HE began to struggle, got his stroke and swam.

* * * * *

DID you kill the Banker Brunton, the physician inquired gently.

THE Banker Brunton--Hale asked curiously--I never heard of him.

A TRAIN of thought seemed starting.

BUT I remember a woman--she dropped her muff--I stooped to pick it up

SHE must have struck me--

OR was it her eyes!

ONCE, long ago--in Rome--she tried to influence me that way.

I DESPISE her.

WHEN she came back I was tired. I gave in. Let's not talk about it.

THE physician looked at Hale with the look of a kind big brother.

THEN he went to the telephone.

THE LAST

THIS is the last day for me. Tomorrow at this time many hours will have passed since the iron door of my cell was unlocked and I was taken along the corridors of the prison and across the yard to the place of execution. Already I shall know for myself what lies on the other side, I shall have ceased forever, I hope, to count the bars of my iron door, my sole occupation and the one thing which keeps me from thinking too much of the past, so bitter.

WHY did they come today. Did they think they would ease my pain, did they think it was charity to play for us, here in the prison.

AT first their music only irritated me and kept me from counting properly the iron bars. Then it enraged me, that woman with the soprano voice--

BUT I counted my iron bars--

SUDDENLY the pain, worse than any I had ever known,--remorse, sorrow, longing,--crowded into my soul. I felt as if I should die.

A MAN at the piano was playing the melody my mother most often played. My agony was beyond bearing. Repentance again swept over me, and eased me. It had been many years since I had heard that old-fashioned tune. At the first chord on the piano a flood of memories rushed back to me.

I WAS once more a boy, in the library at home--lighted lamps and the curtains drawn--a fire blazed and crackled

MY younger brothers sat on the floor near it, amusing themselves by fancying they saw monsters and castles in the depths of the flames.

MY father was there

MY sisters and my mother too.

OH, _misericorde_!

WHAT pain at the sight of her--

SHE is there now-- before me at the piano, and I hear that melody.

AND who is that boy sitting there, --the hope and pride of his family. He is reading some book of Roman exploits and deeds of bravery--

HIS boyish soul is clean.

I AM sorrowful unto madness.

I MAY not live to see the hour of dawn,

THE hour of execution.

THIS grief will kill me --that melody!

LONG since the musicians have returned to their homes,

I STILL hear it, note for note.

MOTHER to welcome me--

PEACE in my soul.

FORGIVE, Great Master, forgive Thy wandering sheep! I have strayed, my Lord, far--

I REPENT--I come--

ASHES

IT was a large house on the outskirts of the town.

IN the living room a fire blazed. Soft shaded lights--a contrast to the blizzard raging outside.

A SMALL gathering of people for informal afternoon tea.

LYDIA STUART had come in rather late. She sat comfortably on a huge divan near the fire.

A PICTURESQUE magnetic figure, dressed in purple, with beautiful warm furs.

RATHER dreamily she gazed at the fire. And mused to herself on the strangeness of life--

ASHES--

SOMETHING within her long ago had died. And the new Lydia had risen, stronger, better, for the horrible struggles against herself--

AGAINST him.

HER art had been created by the ashes of a dead love.

SHE had conquered.

ON the other side of the fireplace was standing the man she had once loved.

THE man who had once possessed her every waking hour.

SHE had fought. An inward battle--a brave struggle--

IN another town she had begged him not to see her--not to write.

* * * * *

THEN later they had met unexpectedly at a ball--

THERE was music--many flowers--brightness--laughter--

HIS arms had held her close as they danced--

A FLOOD of memories rushed across her mind.

FOR a moment she had stood with laughing lips--

IT had been a moment of triumph.

THEN, out of nothing--with no tie to the absorbing passing moment, the image of her mother rose in her thought.

THE triumph gave way to a new compelling mood. She was choosing between two loves--

WITH cold, calculating eyes he had watched her as she moved across the floor--

A GRACEFUL figure in pink.

* * * * *

NO one saw her as she slipped home--sad--the depths of her soul in burning conflict. The flowers she held fell unnoticed.

THE greatest struggle of her life.

DAWN found her still fighting against the overpowering yearning.

FOR months she struggled.

HER art increased.

A DYING part of Lydia gave power to a new-born personality--strong deep-seeing character grew up from the ashes of her former light self.

* * * * *

THIS afternoon, sitting on the great divan, she reflected and understood.

PERHAPS she had overcome months before.

TILL now she had not known.

AT last--only ashes--where once had been love--

HE stood there--looking at her.

SHE saw him only as a stranger--

SHE did not know him--save his name--

THE new Lydia--the artist--could find nothing in common, no union of thought.

WHAT strange lost element in her had once loved this man--

LYDIA--risen from the ashes--walked out into the snow and cold. She felt her release to a new freedom. She could meet him again--without harm--

ANYWHERE--

AT any time--

HE was a stranger.

NANCY TURNER

NANCY TURNER, Teacher of Dancing.