Through the twilight streets I hastened, and Naumoff followed, calling
me by my name; but I did not answer him. Through the long Road of the
Cross I hurried silently, and out through the Golden Gate, and on, down
dusty solitary streets, past the Church of All Saints, until at last I
stood before the cemetery where my mother is laid to rest.
"Where are we going?" asked Naumoff. "Why have you come here?"
But without answering him I threw a ruble to the gatekeeper and entered
the silent pathways of the churchyard.
The sky was still light in the west, but the paths were gloomy in the
shadow of willow and cypress trees. Hastening on between the double rows
of flower-decked graves, and the monuments that gleamed whitely in the
twilight, I reached my mother's tomb. I knelt and kissed the great
marble cross that stands so heavily above her frail brow. And the
thought of her lying there, so desolate and alone, abandoned to the
rains and the winds and the darkness of long dreadful nights, struck
terror to my heart.
"Speak to me, mother," I whispered to her. "Tell me what I am to do. You
who know all--all about the vow and little Tioka, and the terrible things
that are in my life--tell me, mother, must Paul Kamarowsky die?"
My mother did not answer.
"Tell me, tell me, mother! Is he to die?" My mother was silent. But the
evening breeze passed over the delicate flowers, the lilies and
campanulas which cover her grave; and they all nodded their heads,
saying: "Yes, yes, yes."
"Did you see?" I whispered to Naumoff.
But he only looked at me with bewildered eyes. And I drew him away. "We
must go quickly," I said.
Now it was growing dark. I hastened along the winding narrow pathways
until in a deserted corner I found what I was seeking: a neglected grave
marked by a gray stone bearing a name and a date.
As I gazed at that mound of earth, on which a long-since withered wreath
spoke of forgetfulness, a wave of desolation swept over my heart. How
sad and empty and useless was everything! Life and hope and love and
desire--all empty, all unavailing....
"Who is buried here?" asked Naumoff under his breath. He bent forward
and read the name aloud: "_Vladimir Stahl._"
Something stirred. Perhaps it was only the dry leaves of the withered
wreath, but I was afraid--afraid that I should see Stahl suddenly move
and rise up, covered with mold, to answer to his name.
"Vladimir Stahl..." whispered Naumoff again, raising his haggard boyish
face and gazing at me, "Mura, Mura, I see you encompassed by the dead."
Doubtless he meant the tombs which spread around me in a livid
semicircle; but to me it seemed that he could discern standing behind me
all my dead--my mother and Stahl, and Bozevsky and little Peter.... I
uttered a scream as I looked fearfully behind me.
"Why do you scream?" gasped Naumoff; and he also turned and looked
round. Then he pointed to the grave in front of us. "Who was this?" he
asked in a low voice. "Did he love you?" His eyes flickered strangely.
There was horror and lust and frenzy in the gaze he fixed upon me.