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o the concert。 The hall was nearly empty。 The only other people in the audience were the local pharmacist and his wife。 And although the quartet of musicians on stage faced only a trio of spectators down below； they were kind enough not to cancel the concert； and gave a private performance of the last three Beethoven quartets。
Then the pharmacist invited the musicians to dinner and asked the girl in the audience to come along with them。 From then on； Beethoven became her image of the world on the other side； the world she yearned for。 Rounding the counter with Tomas's cognac； she tried to read chance's message： How was it possible that at the very moment she was taking an order of cognac to a stranger she found attractive； at that very moment she heard Beethoven？
Necessity knows no magic formulae—they are all left to chance。 If a love is to be unforgettable； fortuities must immediately start fluttering down to it like birds to Francis of Assisi's shoulders。
10
He called her back to pay for the cognac。 He closed his book （the emblem of the secret brotherhood）； and she thought of asking him what he was reading。
Can you have it charged to my room？ he asked。
Yes； she said。 What number are you in？
He showed her his key； which was attached to a piece of wood with a red six drawn on it。
That's odd； she said。 Six。
What's so odd about that？ he asked。
She had suddenly recalled that the house where they had lived in Prague before her parents were divorced was number six。 But she answered something else （which we may credit to her wiles）： You're in room six and my shift ends at six。
Well； my train leaves at seven； said the stranger。
She did not know how to respond； so she gave him the bill for his signature and took it over to the reception desk。 When she finished work； the stranger was no longer at his table。 Had he understood her discreet message？ She left the restaurant in a state of excitement。
Opposite the hotel was a barren little park； as wretched as only the park of a dirty little town can be； but for Tereza it had always been an island of beauty： it had grass； four poplars； benches； a weeping willow； and a few forsythia bushes。
He was sitting on a yellow bench that afforded a clear view of the restaurant entrance。 The very same bench she had sat on the day before with a book in her lap！ She knew then （the birds of fortuity had begun alighting on her shoulders） that this stranger was her fate。 He called out to her； invited her to sit next to him。 （The crew other soul rushed up to the deck other body。） Then she walked him to the station； and he gave her his card as a farewell gesture。 If ever you should happen to come to Prague。。。
11
Much more than the card he slipped her at the last minute； it was the call of all those fortuities （the book； Beethoven； the number six； the yellow park bench） which gave her the courage to leave home and change her fate。 It may well be those few fortuities （quite modest； by the way； even drab； just what one would expect from so lackluster a town） which set her love in motion and provided her with a source of energy she had not yet exhausted at the end of her days。
Our day…to…day life is bombarded with fortuities or； to be more precise； with the accidental meetings of people and events we call coincidences。 Co…incidence means that two events unexpectedly happen at the same time； they meet： Tomas appears in the hotel restaurant at the same time the radio is playing Beethoven。 We do not even notice the great majority of such coincidences。 If the seat Tomas occupied had been occupied instead by the local butcher； Tereza never would have noticed that the radio was playing Beethoven （though the meeting of Beethoven and the butcher would also have been an interesting coincidence）。 But her nascent love inflamed her sense of beauty； and she would never forget that music。 Whenever she heard it； she would be touched。 Everything going on around her at that moment would be haloed by the music and take on its beauty。
Early in the novel that Tereza clutched under her arm when she went to visit Tomas； Anna meets Vronsky in curious circumstances： they are at the railway station when someone is run over by a train。 At the end of the novel； Anna throws herself under a train。 This symmetrical composition—the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end—may seem quite novelistic to you； and I am willing to agree； but only on condition that you refrain from reading such notions as fictive； fabricated； and untrue to life into the word novelistic。 Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion。
They are composed like music。 Guided by his sense of beauty； an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence （Beethoven's music； death under a train） into a motif； which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual's life。 Anna could have chosen another way to take her life。 But the motif of death and the railway station； unforgettably bound to the birth of love； enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty。 Without realizing it； the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress。
It is wrong； then； to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences （like the meeting of Anna； Vronsky； the railway station； and death or the meeting of Beethoven； Tomas； Tereza； and the cognac）； but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life。 For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty。
12
Impelled by the birds of fortuity fluttering down on her shoulders； she took a week's leave and； without a word to her mother； boarded the train to Prague。 During the journey； she made frequent trips to the toilet to look in the mirror and beg her soul not to abandon the deck of her body for a moment on this most crucial day of her life。 Scrutinizing herself on one such trip； she had a sudden scare： she felt a scratch in her throat。 Could she be coming down with something on this most crucial day of her life？
But there was no turning back。 So she phoned him from the station； and the moment he opened the door； her stomach started rumbling terribly。 She was mortified。 She felt as though she were carrying her mother in her stomach and her mother had guffawed to spoil her meeting with Tomas。
For the first few seconds； she was afraid he would throw her out because of the crude noises she was making； but then he put his arms around her。 She was grateful to him for ignoring her rumbles； and kissed him passionately； her eyes misting。 Before the first minute was up； they were making love。 She screamed while making love。 She had a fever by then。 She had come down with the flu。 The nozzle of the hose supplying oxygen to the lungs was stuffed and red。
When she traveled to Prague a second time； it was with a heavy suitcase。 She had packed all her things； determined never again to return to the small town。 He had invited her to come to his place the following evening。 That night； she had slept in a cheap hotel。 In the morning； she carried her heavy suitcase to the station； left it there； and roamed the streets of Prague the whole day with Anna Karenina under her arm。 Not even after sh