Elena Kirillovna suddenly awoke from her drowse and looked at the
things before her with a perplexed gaze. Everything seemed to be clear,
bright, free from care—and relentless.
Inevitably the triumphant sun rose higher in the heavens’ dome. Grown
powerful, wise and resplendent, it seemed indifferent now to oppressive
earthly melancholy and to sweet earthly delights. And its laughter was
high, joyless, and sorrowless.
Everything as before was green, blue and gold, many-toned and vividly
tinted; truly all the objects of nature showed the real colour of their
souls in honour of this feast of light. But the fine dust upon the
silent road had already lost its rose tinge, and stirred before the
wind like a grey, depressing veil. And when the wind calmed down, the
dust slowly fell back upon the road, like a grey, blind serpent which,
trailing its fat, fantastic belly, falls back exhausted, gasping its
last breath.
All monotony had become wearisome. This inevitable recurrence of lucid
moments began to torment Elena Kirillovna with the grey foreboding of
sadness, of bitter tears, of unanswered prayers, and of a profound
hopelessness.