She sat there for a long time, embraced by the night, motionless,
looking into the darkness with wide-open eyes, and timidly wailing
a lullaby--a lullaby for her baby, which had fallen asleep, and a
lullaby for her outraged heart.
A gray bird darted over her head, and flew far away. It awakened
her, and brought her to her feet. Then, shivering with cold, she
walked home to confront the horror of blows and new insults.
For the last time a heavy and resonant chord heaved a deep breath,
indifferent and cold; it sighed and died away.
Sofya turned around, and asked her brother softly:
"Did you like it?"
"Very much," he said, nodding his head. "Very much."
Sofya looked at the mother's face, but said nothing.
"They say," said Nikolay thoughtfully, throwing himself deeper
back on the sofa, "that you should listen to music without thinking.
But I can't."
"Nor can I," said Sofya, striking a melodious chord.
"I listened, and it seemed to me that people were putting their
questions to nature, that they grieved and groaned, and protested
angrily, and shouted, 'Why?' Nature does not answer, but goes on
calmly creating, incessantly, forever. In her silence is heard her
answer: 'I do not know.
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