"———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.