Elena Kirillovna quietly descends the narrow side staircase into the
garden. She sits down on a bench somewhat away from the house, looks
upon the green bedecked pond and weeps.
Natasha goes into her room in the mezzanine. She opens a book and tries
to read. But she finds it impossible. She puts the book aside and looks
out of the window, and her eyes are dimmed.
Higher and higher above the old house rises the pitiless, bright
Dragon. His joyous laughter rings in the merry heights, encloses, as in
a flaming circle, the depressing silence of the house. The
well-directed rays shoot out like sharp-plumed arrows, and the air is
tremulous with eternal, inexhaustible anger. No one is being awaited.
No one will come. Borya has died. The relentless wheel of time knows no
turning back.
So the day is passing—clearly and brightly. The dazzling white light
says there is nothing to hope for.