Yeah, back when blogs were started here, I called my entire short story section of my blog "The Wandering Tower" Blog, named after one of Prokofiev's own creations. I was very excited to find out that he wrote lots of short stories too, we must have many things in common after all.
So what did you think of the latest story I posted? It took me a long long time to do the actual historical research, in which I melded fictional events into. You may never know which are real
Two weeks later, Anton Stepanovich was dead. He embraced one of his books while he died, weeping with his last breaths they say. The book was flipped to this poem:
The days drag on, each moment multiplies
Within my wounded heart the pain and sadness
Of an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.
To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madness
But I do not complain - instead, I weep;
Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.
It was early February when he was in his room staring up at the ceiling, when he heard a knock on the door.
"It's me, Sergei Ivanovich. I want to see you."
"Come in," Anton still stared at the ceiling.
Sergei Ivanovich wasn't alone. Sergei Vasilievich, Anton's colleague who he played piano duos with, and also Sasha and Anatol Konstantinovich were all there. All of them looked very grave but also very alarmed.
Anton Stepanovich was only 44 years old.
A doctor nearly demanded him to go to Nice, Italy to recover his health. Anton begrudgingly did, calling it a "vacation," and so he stayed for some weeks. But in fact over those few weeks he sabotaged his health through intentionally destructive drinking, and so he returned to Russia worse than before.
He submitted himself to a sanatorium outside St. Petersburg that happened to be in a district that was counted as Finnish territory.
Anton began to speak.
I remember the marvellous moment
you appeared before me,
like a transient vision,
like pure beauty’s spirit.
Lost in hopeless sadness,
lost in the loud world’s turmoil,
I heard your voice’s echo,
and often dreamed your features.
Years passed. The storm winds scattered,
with turbulent gusts, that dreaming.
I forgot NOT your voice, its tenderness.
I forgot NOT your lovely
Updated Sep-22-2013 at 02:00 by Huilunsoittaja