The Garnet Bracelet

Inside the case was a gold, low-karat inflated bracelet covered with garnets, among which lay a small green stone. The letter placed inside the case contained a congratulation on the day of her angel and a request to accept the bracelet that had belonged even to her great-grandmother. The green stone is a very rare green garnet that foretells Providence and protects men from violent death. The letter ended with the words: “Your servant, obedient unto death and after death, G. S. J.”

Vera picked up the bracelet—inside the stones, ominous thick crimson “living” flames flared up. “Just like blood!” she thought, and went back into the living room.

At that moment, Prince Vasily Lvovich was showing his humorous home photo album, just opened to the “tale” “Princess Vera and the lovestruck telegraphist.” “Better not,” she begged. But her husband had already begun a full-on brilliant commentary on his own drawings. Here is a young woman named Vera receiving a letter with cooing blue doves, signed by telegraphist P. P. J. Here is young Vasya Shein returning Vera’s engagement ring: “I dare not interfere with your happiness, and yet my duty is to warn you: telegraphists are charming, but treacherous.” And here Vera is getting married to handsome Vasya Shein, but the telegraphist continues his pursuit. Here he is, dressed as a chimney sweep, slipping into the duchess’s boudoir. Here he is, dressed in that way, getting into their kitchen as a scullery maid. And finally, here he is, in an asylum, and so on.

“Ladies, who would like tea?” Vera asked. After tea, the guests began to leave.

The old general Anosov, whom Vera and her sister Anna called “grandpa,” asked the princess to clarify what in the prince’s story was true.

G. S. J. (not P. P. J.) began pursuing her with letters two years before her marriage. Evidently, he had been watching her constantly, knew where she went in the evenings, what she wore. When Vera, too, asked him in writing not to bother her with these pursuits, he fell silent about love and limited himself to greetings on holidays—just like today, on the day of her name day.

The old man was silent a moment. “Maybe he’s a maniac? Or maybe, Verochka, your life path was crossed by precisely such love women dream of—and men are no longer capable of.”

After the guests departed, Vera’s husband and her brother Nikolai decided to find the admirer and get the bracelet back. The next day they already knew G. S. J.’s address. It turned out to be a man about thirty—thirty-five years old. He denied nothing and admitted the impropriety of his behavior. Finding understanding—and even sympathy—in the prince, he explained that, alas, he loved the prince’s wife, and neither exile nor prison could kill that feeling. Only death could. He had to confess that he had squandered state money and would be forced to flee the city, so they would no longer hear from him.

The next day, in the newspaper, Vera read about the suicide of an official from the Control Chamber—G. S. Zheltkova. In the evening, the mail carrier brought his letter.

Zheltkov wrote that for him all life consisted only in her—Vera Nikolaevna. This was love that God rewarded him with for something. Leaving, he repeats with bliss: “Let Your Name be hallowed.” If she remembers him, then let her play the re-major part of Beethoven’s “Appassionata”; from the depths of his soul he thanks her for being his only joy in life.

Vera couldn’t help but go to say goodbye to this man. Her husband fully understood her impulse.

The face of the man lying in the coffin was serene, as if he had learned a deep secret. Vera raised his head, placed a large red rose under his neck, and kissed him on the forehead. She understood that the love every woman dreams of had passed her by.

When she returned home, she found only her fellow student friend, the famous pianist J enny Reiter. “Play something for me,” she asked. And Jenny (a miracle!) began playing the exact passage of the “Appassionata” that Zheltkov had indicated in his letter. She listened, and in her mind the words formed—like verses, ending with a prayer: “Let Your Name be hallowed.” “What’s wrong with you?” Jenny asked, noticing her tears. “...He forgave me now. Everything is fine,” Vera answered.