Mikhail Lvovich is the first to break the silence. He speaks slowly,
looking at no one and directing his heavy gaze above the children’s
pale faces, beyond the flaming ring of their glances:
“My friends, you know the sort of time this is. Each one of us can be
of use. If any one of us is sent I hope that none will tremble for his
precious life, and that none will be deterred by the thought of a
mother’s sorrow.”
The children exclaim:
“None! None! If they would but send us!”
“What is the sorrow of a single mother compared to the suffering of an
entire nation!” thinks Natasha proudly.
There rises up for an instant a mental image of the ashen-pale face of
her mother, her intensely dark, eloquent eyes. A sharp pain, lasting a
moment, pierces her heart. What of that? It is, after all, but a single
instant of weakness. A proud will shall conquer this slight suffering
of a single relative by conferring great love upon the many, the
strangers, the grievous sufferers.
What is the woe of one mother! Let Niobe weep eternally for her
children, killed by the burning, poisoned arrows of the high Dragon;
let Rachel remain unconsoled for ever—what is the woe of a poor mother?
Serene is Apollo’s face, radiant is Apollo’s dream.
Yet how painful, how painful! A dimness comes over the transcendent
idea, as though the dark countenance of the ominous figure who sang the
proud hymn has dimmed the moon and has cast an austere shadow upon the
heart itself.
And now there is no moon, and no night, and no white glade in the mist
in the forest. The bright day stares again at Natasha, she is at the
window, the book lies before her, the old house is depressingly silent.
The cloud has disappeared, the heavens are clear again, the evil Dragon
is once more aiming his flaming arrows, he reiterates his conquest
anew.
This cruel melancholy must be faced. Sting, accursed Dragon, burn,
torment. Rejoice, conqueror! But even he must soon go to his setting,
and, dying, pour out his blood upon half the heavens.