Is your soul overflowing?

The story of a silence so loud

that it could not be hidden.

Lord Henri glanced at the clock for the fifth time that night. The storm outside was growing ever fiercer, with lightning slashing through the sky and thunder bellowing so loudly it shook the entire residence. He sighed; it was nearly ten o’clock. Not even the raging tempest could muffle Anna’s piano, which was even more furious and intense than nature’s own clamor.

He had been standing by the window in the drawing room for hours, watching the garden and awaiting Anna’s return. All the while, he could hear her playing one piece after another, ceaselessly. His heart clenched. She had not eaten or drunk a thing all day, not even at four o’clock, when he brought her something as usual and urged her to eat.

She simply ignored him, never ceasing to play for even a moment since she had read that telegram. She had run out of the house, straight to her piano, and had stayed there ever since. Blast Lady Marta for delivering the telegram directly to her.

He sighed, torn between irritation and resignation. It was not truly Lady Marta’s fault, he was just searching for someone to blame. Eventually, Anna would have had to know, and there was no guarantee he could have softened the news even if he had read the telegram first.

Marta had told him that after reading the telegram, Lady Anna had dropped the glass of milk she’d been drinking, shattering it across the kitchen floor along with the spilled milk. Anna, oblivious to the crash of breaking glass or the wet floor strewn with shards, had simply walked away toward the door that led to the back of the property. Her arms hung at her sides, leaving a trail of blood from one foot, cut by a shard of glass. As usual, she was barefooted.

At the door that opened onto the yard, she had let the telegram slip from her hand and headed out through the garden, stumbling in a daze across the long lawn toward her piano. Once she reached it, she hadn’t stopped playing at all—and she played with a fury, a desperation, unlike anything he had seen before. That was at eight in the morning, right after she had come back to the kitchen for another piece of fruit and some milk.

Ever since her stay at that elderly couple’s farm, she had taken to drinking milk—a beverage she previously did not like. That was why she always returned to the kitchen after sunrise, when the milk was warmed.

Lady Cecília has died. I’m so sorry. Peter.

That was all the telegram said, no further explanation. Of course, one paid per letter in a telegram, and Lady Cecilia’s family—her husband, Peter — had few resources.

A bolt of lightning tore across the sky and lit up the drawing room, followed by a clap of thunder that felt more like a herald of the world’s end than a simple storm.

Lady Marta watched from the dining room doorway, equally on her feet all day long, distraught. She fidgeted, wringing her hands, feeling guilty. She had delivered the telegram without a second thought, assuming it might be something that would brighten Lady Anna’s day. How naïve of her — no one sends telegrams to bear good news…

She heard the massive groan of the drawing room’s great door, which was rarely opened. It clearly needed oil on its hinges, Lady Marta observed.

Lord Henri could not contain himself: he opened the thick, heavy door and dashed out into the storm, heading straight for the gazebo where Lady Anna’s piano stood.

“Lord Henri! Lord Henri!” Marta ran to the entrance after him as she saw him leave and cried out in alarm. “You’ll catch your death in this rain! Lord Henri, please!”

She reached the top of the steps in front of the house. The raindrops were indeed heavy and bitterly cold, and the slick ground was treacherous. So she hurried back inside the hall, knowing it would do no good to chase after him…

It was too late; Lord Henri was already walking quickly, soon out of earshot. From the doorway she could see his silhouette moving through the downpour, then watched as he began to run — either to flee the deluge or to reach Lady Anna that much sooner, as though the time he had given her to return on her own had suddenly run out all at once.

Lady Marta shook her head and went back inside, shutting the heavy door. There was nothing more she could do at that moment. Through the driving rain, every so often, they could hear Lady Anna’s cries piercing the night, like her piano’s voice, fiercer than even the torrents pouring from the sky… Lady Marta retired to her rooms, thinking that, in the morning, she would do all she could for them. For now, it was too late. She would let them come to terms with each other, and she needed her strength for the next day.

The sound of Wilde Jagd, by Liszt, reverberated through the gazebo’s glass. Like thunder rolling from within, clashing with the heavy patter of rain against the smooth, thin surface. Lord Henri entered the gazebo, drenched and breathless. He slowed his pace, walking in as though calm. Anna was playing in the dark. With the storm, no one had come to light the lamp.

She kept playing, furious, without turning around. If she was aware of his presence, she ignored it.

He sat in his usual spot, leaning against one of the pillars, catching his breath as he watched Lady Anna, whose figure was lit now and then by flashes of lightning streaking across the sky.

He had run there, but in truth, he had no plan. He had no idea what to do or say, or if she would even hear him, no matter what he might attempt. He wanted to embrace her, protect her, hold her in her grief, yet he could not bring himself to touch her.

Lady Cecilia had warned him plainly that Anna, more often than not, could not bear physical contact. An unwelcome touch could spark an emotional outburst and cause her to lose all control. Lady Cecilia had said this with a smile he could not decipher — was it sorrow? Condescension? Or simply love and empathy?

They had been sitting on a bench in a park near Lady Cecilia’s home, the sky a light blue with fluffy white clouds drifting overhead. She had taken his left hand in both of hers as she spoke, giving soft pats on the back of his hand. Any physical contact with Anna had to come from her first, she had said at last.

Now he leaned more heavily against the side of the gazebo, pressing against the glass too and feeling the cold from outside. He was grateful it was dark and that Anna had her back to him. He allowed tears to roll down his face, one by one, without trying to hold them back. Anna’s entire body vibrated with the music, her fingers striking the keys with rage, pain, and brutality.

He longed to hold her and protect her, but who can protect anyone from the anguish of death? Anna howled as she played, throwing her head back and unleashing the torment her heart could not contain. Each time she cried out like that, he wept even more, pained by the savage force with which she struck those delicate fingers against the piano. She had been playing like this for hours…

He simply watched her, wondering if there was anything he could do or say that might help ease her pain, but nothing came to mind.

After what felt like a long time — though he could not say exactly how long —he wanted to know the hour. He stood and groped about for the lantern that should be somewhere nearby. He needed light to see the pocket watch he carried. He found the lantern beneath the piano on one side. He thought to set it atop the piano while lighting it, but realized that with the force of her playing, she would surely knock it over.

So he lit it on the floor, fumbling for the box of matches he always kept in his inside coat pocket — thankfully still dry. He raised the lantern, looking for a hook from which to hang it; surely there was at least one in the gazebo — he remembered as much from designing it.

With the light on, anyone else would have noticed him right away, but Anna was Anna. He couldn’t be sure she saw him, even now. He found a hook to the left of the piano and hung the lantern there.

Its soft glow lit her form: her hair was damp with sweat, stuck to her face. Strands had worked loose from the braid down her back and clung to her forehead and cheeks, the dripping ends brushing her shoulders.

That was when he saw it. The piano keys were stained — every one of them. He took the lantern again and held it closer, to see what it might be. He stepped back abruptly, nearly dropping the lantern, but managed to place it on the floor by the piano while he himself leaned back against the gazebo pillar. He glanced at Anna’s face; she remained oblivious.

It was blood. The piano was stained with blood; Anna’s fingers were thoroughly wounded from the effort of playing for so many hours, pounding out such brutal and intense pieces.

He gazed at her in despair. He needed to make her stop. He wanted to seize her by the shoulders and beg her to stop, but he feared what such a shock might do to her. At the same time, he knew how intensely she could focus on whatever she was doing, and he could imagine her continuing this way far beyond the point of exhaustion…

He raked his hands in anguish over his temples, tears welling up in his eyes once more, sharper than before. “Anna,” he said gently. She neither turned nor shifted her eyes toward him, showing no sign of having heard. “Anna, Anna.” He called a bit louder.

She kept playing, unheeding. “Anna, Anna!” He raised his voice more with each call.

Still, she gave no indication of noticing him at all. At last, he dropped to his knees beside her, shouting in desperation. “Anna, Anna! Anna!” he cried out in pain. “For God’s sake, Anna, stop! Anna, stop!”

But she continued playing Le Festin d’Ésope, Op. 39 no. 12, by Alkan. Kneeling at her feet, with the light rising from below, he saw how many times tears had streamed over her face, drying only to flow anew.

“Anna…” He pleaded quietly once more.

Tears streamed from her eyes again, and from his own without ceasing. “Anna,” he repeated, a little louder than before.

She finished Le Festin d’Ésope and immediately started Toccata in C Major, Op. 7, by Schumann. “Annaaa!” he roared, and, in a burst of instinct he could neither think through nor contain, he grabbed her left wrist — closest to him — with his right hand, keeping her from striking the keys again. In that swift movement, he pulled her body toward him and ended up seizing her right hand with his left.

Anna let out a scream, not of physical pain (he was only holding her hands firmly, not crushing them). She threw her head back and howled, over and over.

“Please, Anna, please!” She thrashed, yanking her arms, and, fearing she would hurt herself, he released her wrists.

She kept screaming and sobbing in an anguish he could never have imagined. Now that she was turned to face him, she did not try to return to the piano. With her hands freed, he saw the moment she spread her fingers like claws, about to rake at her own face. Again acting on impulse, he threaded his fingers through hers, stopping her from hurting herself.

That made her pause for a moment and look at him, but it didn’t stop her previous motion entirely; her nails dug into the backs of his hands.

He bowed his head from the pain, yet felt a measure of relief. “It’s all right, Anna, it’s all right,” he said, gripping her hands firmly without letting her pull free. “It’s all right, Anna,” he repeated. “It’s all right. I’m here with you. It’s all right.”

He looked at her with tears coursing down his cheeks; she had her head thrown back, still trying to free her arms, her nails embedded in his flesh, unaware of the harm she did. “It’s all right, Anna. You can hurt me if you must, it doesn’t matter. It’s all right. Just please, don’t hurt yourself anymore, for God’s sake, don’t hurt yourself.” His voice trembled as he lowered his head again, distraught.

He noticed too late the moment she jerked her head back further, intending to slam it against his. There was no time to stop her movement and she could have injured herself by crashing into him. “Anna!” he shouted. “Please, Anna, you can hurt me, but don’t keep hurting yourself, I beg you,” his voice broke. He lifted his head, catching a glimpse of her eyes before lowering it again in fear he might provoke her further.

Suddenly, her motion froze. The tension in her arms eased. That was when she saw her own tears mirrored in his face…

She let her head fall slowly, resting it against his. Gasping for breath, she slumped into his arms, half-fainting.

He held her, still hesitant to embrace her. At last, he surrendered to his instincts and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his face to her sweat-dampened cheek. Her chest rose and fell against him as her strength gave out. He lowered himself to the floor, leaning his back against one of the piano legs, keeping her securely in his arms.

She yielded to him entirely, letting her head rest on his chest as her eyes fluttered open and shut repeatedly.

He bent his head to her hair, unable to stop crying even now that her own tears had halted — perhaps she was too exhausted to cry, or perhaps they now flowed through him in her stead.

He took her hands in his left hand, wincing at the sight of her fingers so badly injured — some still bleeding, others crusted with dried blood. He kissed the back of her hands gently and murmured, almost to himself, “Did you care that much for Lady Cecilia?” He sighed.

“She was like a mother to me.” He looked at her, surprised she had answered.

“Like a mother to you?” he asked, brushing away strands of her hair that clung to her sweat-soaked face. “Like your own mother?”

She shook her head slightly in denial. “My mother is not like a mother to me. Lady Cecilia is like a mother to me.”

He nodded, understanding. “I should have asked her to visit us more often if I’d known…” he said softly, mostly to himself, for her eyes were closing more than they were opening.

She shook her head again, briefly. “Lady Cecilia has children,” she said, and her face contorted in pain as she began to cry bitterly once again, burying her face in his chest.

He did not understand but held her closer. “And I can’t, I don’t know how…” — she sobbed harder — “to be like a mother to them. I don’t know how.” She wept, anguished by her powerlessness. “They have no one to be a mother to them anymore…”

“Oh…” He could barely fathom it. She was mourning not just her own loss, but the fact that those children were left motherless.

He gazed at her, half-weeping, half-slipping into sleep. “Don’t worry, we’ll find someone to look after them.” He paused, lightly touching her chin. “Someone who can be like a mother to them.”

She opened her eyes, meeting his for a moment longer than before. He went on, “Remember when Lady Cecilia visited you? I found someone to look after her children while she was here. We can contact that same person again, all right? Or someone else. I’ll arrange for someone who can care for them like a mother, all right?”

She nodded and let her eyes close. Then she fell asleep.

He continued to hold her, relieved that she had finally stopped playing. The rain still drummed steadily, but the thunder and lightning had abated, leaving only a relentless downpour.

Gradually, the night gave way as the rain lightened, tapering off until it finally ceased at the first glimmers of dawn.

Daybreak arrived slowly, finding Lord Henri awake, holding her. She was calm at last, and he felt calmer too, realizing there was indeed something he could do for her.

Lady Marta rose early. Not finding Lord Henri nor Lady Anna, she prepared a basket of food to bring to the gazebo, adding fruit, warm milk, and the sweet rolls Anna liked best. She also included a bottle of fresh water.

In the days that followed, the music Anna played remained sorrowful — but like summer rain, gentle and persistent.