III.

YES, she is dead. That is the truth. If truth is good, as men proclaim

it to be, then goodness is intrinsically cruel. That Veronika is dead is

the truth which lies like a hot coal upon my consciousness, and goads

me along as I tell this tale. And the manner of her death and the

speediness of it—I must tell all.

And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a

hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God

help me, I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I

can scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to

be in utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have

abandoned faith in Religion, still profess faith in Nature, saying,

“Nature is provident, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with

beauty.” And at most times, it seems as if these assertions were not

to be contested. Yet, how can they be true when Nature contained the

possibility of Veronika’s death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have

permitted that maiden life to be destroyed?—provident, and yet have

flung away her finest product?—beneficent, and yet have torn bleeding

from my life all that made my life worth living?—beautiful, and yet

have quenched the beautifying light of Veronika’s presence, and hushed

the voice that made the world musical? The mere fact that Veronika could

die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers. In the light of that fact,

or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery to sing songs of praise

to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me to believe—to believe a

thing which annihilates the harmony of the universe, and proclaims the

optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion, a superstition. How could

I believe my senses if I should hear Christine Nilsson utter a hideous

false note? So is it hard for me to believe that Nature has allowed

Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the unmistakable, irrevocable,

relentless truth.

I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that

other lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours

was—happiness so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love

that burst suddenly into our lives, and filled each cranny full to

overflowing, was so pure and bright as almost to blind us. The happiness

was all the keener, the light all the brighter, because of the hardship

and the monotony of our daily tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had

leisure and friends and many resources for diversion, then most likely

our delight in each other would not have been so great. But as we

were—poor, hard worked, and alone in the world—we found all the

happiness we had, in ourselves, in communing together; and happiness

concentrated, was proportionately more intense. The few hours in the

week which we were permitted to spend side by side glittered like

diamonds against the dull background of the rest. And we improved them

to the full. We called upon each fleeting moment to stay and perpetuate

itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had to wait so many

years before he could do the same. The season was divine, clear skies

and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily accessible,

we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the country

whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact the

turf of the common was sadly parched and brown; but we were not critical

so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our characters

were perfectly accorded; their unison was faultless. Each called for the

other, needed the other, as the dominant chord calls for and needs its

tonic. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an aspiration, but it was

shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual passion which we pursued

together. When Veronika was seated at the piano and I stood at her side

with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of contentment was full to the

brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember, one evening, in the middle

of a phrase, her fingers faltered and she wheeled around and lifted her

eyes upon my face.—“What is the matter, darling?” I asked.—“I

only want to look at you to realize that it isn’t a dream,” she

answered.—And yet she is dead.

June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our

wedding would be celebrated. The night was sultry, and she and I sat

together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to

him just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he

had gone out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no

means sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without

talking it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy

thoughts that filled our minds and listen to the subdued sounds of human

life that came in by the window.

Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit, telling how she had

worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure

in the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had

boasted all the rubies and silken fabrics of the Indies. This set us to

talking of the future and making plans. And afterward we talked of the

past. We spoke of how strange it was that we should have come together

in the way we had—by the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted

if it was indeed an accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our

footsteps that memorable night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle

and I had been but a few moments earlier or later, we never should have

seen each other at all. Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we

had never known each other!” and her fingers tightened around mine.

“And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a

strange lady, and that you should have answered!”

“It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before

I stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might

think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad

of it now.”

“I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all

pre-ordained in heaven. I believe that our Guardian Angel prompted me to

speak and you to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each

other, were left to find it out by a mere perilous chance—it isn’t

credible.”

“But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a

miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed

you. Nobody else can know how dreary and empty my life was before you

came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.”

Here we stopped talking for a while.

By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other

arts. I think the musician instinctively needs a companion worker. I

know that in the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to

cry out continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps

this was because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most

sympathetic. Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano,

the pain of being alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most

thorough musician; but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely as I

did, and he did not. He always analyzed and criticised, never allowed

himself to be carried away, never forgot the intellectual side of the

things I would play. But now—now that you are with me, my music is a

constant source of joy. And then, the thought that we are going to work

together all our lives, the thought of the music we are going to make

together—oh, it is too great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare

to believe it. I am afraid all the time that something will happen to

prevent it coming true.”

Again for a while we did not speak.

Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely

I was in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little

tenderness. Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good

to me; but do you think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more

affection than he gave me? I mean a little more manifest affection;

because I know that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly.

But I longed for somebody to show a little care for me, and uncle is

very undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then

sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it

was so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the

day—not to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You

see, other girls have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and

friends: but I had nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and

regarded things so differently, that I do not think it was unnatural for

me to wish for some one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I

felt so weak and helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to

my uncle! or what if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the

rest and security that you brought to me!”

What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent to bear

recording.

“And then, the mere physical fatigue—day after day, work, work,

work, and never any respite. Of course, every body has to work, but

almost every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single

day that I could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter

how tired I was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow

was ankle deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting

to Hoboken, made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework

too, you know. We couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the

money we had to send abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I

had to clean the rooms and cook the dinner; though I am afraid that

sometimes I did not more than half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the

dust lie for a week on the mantle-piece. And every day was just the same

as the day that had gone before. It was like traveling in a circle. When

I would go to bed at night my weariness would be all the harder because

of the thought, ‘To-morrow will be just the same, the same round

of lessons, the same dead fatigue, the same monotonous drudgery from

beginning to end.’ And as I saw no promise of change, as I thought it

would be the same all my life, I could not help asking what the use was

of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful grumbler? Yet, what could

I do? I think it is natural when one is young to long for something

to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just a little

companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do you

remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening one feels when they

sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then

with a mighty burst of sound, ‘And there was LIGHT?’ Do you remember

how one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It

was like that when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt

unhappy or discontented. The mere prospect of seeing you at the week’s

end made my heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive, an

object, to my life—made me feel that I was working to a purpose, that

I should have my reward. I had been growing hard and indifferent, even

indifferent to music. But now I began to love my music more than ever:

and no matter how tired I might be, when I had a moment of leisure I

would sit down and practice so as to be able to play well for you. Music

seemed to express all the unutterable feeling that you inspired me with.

One day I had sung the Ave Maria of Cherubini to you, and you said,

‘It is so religious—it expresses precisely the emotions one

experiences in a church.’ But for me it expressed rather the emotions

a woman has when she is in the presence of the man she loves. All the

time I had no idea that you would ever feel in the same way toward

me.”

My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s Stabat

Mater, and played a medley of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my

watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her

uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said

so.

“Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he

has one of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am

quite accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.”

“In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may

embarrass her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.”

I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as

I reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found

myself in the street. I looked up at the parlor window, and remained on

the curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the

light being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I

set my face toward home.

I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand

that what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire.

My tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should

be dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The

tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she

had been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce

work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to

return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I

left her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the

knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that

I was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when

that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should

overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have

gazed straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I

was seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her

eyes.

I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety

and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment

that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I

reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself

that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for

her lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not

begin till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on

my hat and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street.

Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as

abruptly and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I

laughed as I remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the

matter. Still I am not sorry to have come.”

“Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me

in.

“I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so

without my noticing.”

I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I rang

again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope of success:

and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.”

Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside

to let some one pass.

“Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out

so early?”