The last to awake, with the sun quite high and scorching, is Borya’s
mother, Sofia Alexandrovna. Through the thin bright curtains, drawn for
the night across the windows, the light fills her bedroom.
Sofia Alexandrovna awakes with a start, as though some one had touched
her suddenly or had called to her. With her right hand she impetuously
throws aside her light white bed-cover. Quickly she sits up in bed,
holding her hands over her bent knees. For a moment she looks before
her at a bare place in the simple pattern of the bright green hangings.
Sofia Alexandrovna’s eyes are dark, wide open, with black, fiery pupils
which seem lost in the abysmal, depths of their own sorrowful gaze. Her
face is long, its skin smooth and colourless, though quite fresh and
almost free of wrinkles. The lips are a vivid red.
Sofia Alexandrovna’s expression is like that of one faced suddenly with
a tragic apparition. She rocks herself back and forward.
Then, abruptly, she jumps out of bed with a single spring. She runs to
the washing-basin of marble mounted on a red stand. She washes herself
quickly, as though in haste to go somewhere. Now she is at the window.
The curtains are flung violently aside. She peers anxiously to see what
the outlook is—whether there are any clouds in the sky that might bring
rain and make the road muddy, the road upon which Borya would return
home.
The heavens are tremulously joyous. The birches are rustling quietly.
The sparrows are twittering. Everything is green, bright, quivering;
everything palpitates under the tension of hopes and anticipations.
Voices are audible; cries of good cheer and sounds of laughter. One of
the laughers runs by, as though making haste to live.
A torrent of tears floods Sofia Alexandrovna’s eyes. Her breast heaves
visibly under the white linen chemise.