“Yes,”--she repeated, gazing at me as before.--“It is so. They are the
same eyes,”--she added, becoming pensive, and covering her face with her
hands.--“Everything has become repulsive to me,”--she whispered;--“I
would like to go to the end of the world; I cannot endure this, I cannot
reconcile myself.... And what is in store for me?... Akh, I am heavy at
heart ... my God, how heavy at heart!”
“Why?”--I timidly inquired.
Zinaída did not answer me and merely shrugged her shoulders. I continued
to kneel and to gaze at her with profound melancholy. Every word of
hers fairly cut me to the heart. At that moment, I think I would
willingly have given my life to keep her from grieving. I gazed at her,
and nevertheless, not understanding why she was heavy at heart, I
vividly pictured to myself how, in a fit of uncontrollable sorrow, she
had suddenly gone into the garden, and had fallen on the earth, as
though she had been mowed down. All around was bright and green; the
breeze was rustling in the foliage of the trees, now and then rocking a
branch of raspberry over Zinaída’s head. Doves were cooing somewhere and
the bees were humming as they flew low over the scanty grass. Overhead
the sky shone blue,--but I was so sad....
“Recite some poetry to me,”--said Zinaída in a low voice, leaning on her
elbow.--“I like to hear you recite verses. You make them go in a
sing-song, but that does not matter, it is youthful. Recite to me: ‘On
the Hills of Georgia.’--Only, sit down first.”