His closed eyes suggested deep gravity, and his lips were set in a blissful, serene smile, as if before parting with life he had learned some deep, sweet mystery that had solved the whole riddle of his life.
She remembered having seen the same peaceful expression on the death-masks of two great martyrs, Pushkin and Napoleon.
"Would you like me to leave you alone, madam?" asked the old woman, a very intimate note in her voice.
"Yes, I'll call you later," said Vera, and she at once took a big red rose from the side pocket of her jacket, slightly raised the head of the corpse with her left hand, and with her right hand put the flower under his neck.
At that moment she realized that that love of which every woman dreams had gone past her.
She recalled what General Anosov had said, almost prophetically, about everlasting, exclusive love.
And, pushing aside the hair on the dead man's forehead, she clutched his temples with her hands and put her lips to his cold, moist forehead in a long, affectionate kiss.
When she was leaving the landlady spoke to her in her ingratiating accent.
"I can see, madam, that you're not like others, who come out of mere curiosity.
Before his death Mr. Zheltkov said to me,
'If I happen to die and a lady comes to look at me tell her that Beethoven's best work is — ' He wrote it down for me.
Here, look."
"Let me see it," said Vera Nikolayevna, and suddenly she broke into tears. "Please excuse me — this death shocked me so I couldn't help myself."
She read the words, written in the familiar hand:
"L. van Beethoven.
Son. No. 2, op.
2.
Largo Appassionato. "
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. [ Derived from zheltok, yolk. — 7V.]
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.