Natasha sits in her room before an open window. A book is lying on the
window-sill. She has no desire to read.
Every line in the book reminds her of him, of unfinished conversations,
of heated discussions, of what had been, of what is no more.
The memories become brighter and brighter, and reach at last a
clearness and fullness of vision, overwhelming her soul.
The fiery Dragon, obscured by a leaden grey cloud, becomes a little
dim. Dimness also creeps into the memory of him. It seems as though the
heavens are being traversed by the cold, clear, tranquil moon. Her face
is pale, but not from sadness. Her rays have cast a spell upon the
sleeping earth and upon the unattainably high heavens.
The moon has bewitched the fields and also the valleys, which are full
of mist. There is a dull glimmer in the drops of cool, tranquil dew
upon the slumbering grass.
There is in this fantastic glimmer the resurrection of that which has
died—of that past tenderness and love which inspired deeds requiring
superhuman strength. There come again to the lips proud, long-unsung
hymns, and vows of action and loyalty.
And what of that evil, vigilant, and instigating eye; and what of the
traitor whose words mingled with the passionate words of the young
people! Not even the waters of all the cold oceans can quench the fire
of daring love, and all the cunning poisons of the earth cannot poison
it.
Bewitched with the lunar mystery, the wood stands expectant, nebulous,
silent. Incomprehensible and inaccessible to men is its slow, sure
experience, and the secret of its forged desires.
Into its lunar silence men have brought the revolt, the speech and
laughter of youth; but, overcome by the lunar mystery, they are
suddenly grown silent and meditative.
The open glade in the woods, enchanted by the green, cold light of the
moon, seems very white. Along the edge of the glade lie the shadows of
the trees; they seem unreal and nebulous and mysteriously still.
The moon, very slowly, almost stealthily, is rising higher in the pale
blue dome. Round, cold, half lost in the milk-white mist as behind a
thin veil, she disperses by her dispassionate gaze the nebulous, silent
tops of the slumbering trees, and looks down upon the glade with the
motionless, inquisitive glance of her white eyes.
The thin particles of dew scattered over the cold grasses vanish—the
white nocturnal haze drinks them greedily. The air is oppressively
sweet. On the edge of the glade a number of slender, erect,
white-limbed birches emerge out of the mist; they are still asleep, and
as innocent as their girl companions who rest beneath them in their
green-white dresses.