It was a long autumn evening. On the other side of the wall were the
wind and the rain.
How wearily, how indifferently the lamp flared! Volodya, propping
himself up on his elbow, leant his whole body over to the left and
looked at the white wall and at the white window-blinds.
The pale flowers were almost invisible on the wall-paper ... the wall
was a melancholy white....
The shaded lamp subdued the bright glare of light. The entire upper
portion of the room was twilit.
Volodya lifted his right arm. A long, faintly outlined, confused shadow
crept across the shaded wall.
It was the shadow of an angel, flying heaven-ward from a depraved and
afflicted world; it was a translucent shadow, spreading its broad wings
and reposing its bowed head sadly upon its breast.
Would not the angel, with his gentle hands, carry away with him
something significant yet despised of this world?
Volodya sighed. He let his arm fall languidly. He let his depressed
eyes rest on his books.
It was a long autumn evening.... The wall was a melancholy white.... On
the other side of the wall something wept and rustled.