In the meantime his mother opened the little book with the shadows—and
became lost in thought.
“I wonder what’s fascinating about them?” she mused. “It is strange
that such a good, clever boy should suddenly, become wrapped up in such
nonsense! No, that means it’s not mere nonsense. What, then, is it?”
she pursued her questioning of herself.
A strange fear took possession of her; she felt malignant toward these
black pictures, yet quailed before them.
She rose and lighted a candle. She approached the wall, the little grey
book still in her hand, and paused in her wavering agitation.
“Yes, it is important to get to the bottom of this,” she resolved, and
began to reproduce the shadows from the first to the last.
She persisted most patiently with her hands and her fingers, until she
succeeded in reproducing the figure she desired. A confused,
apprehensive feelings stirred within her. She tried to conquer it. But
her fear fascinated her as it grew stronger. Her hands trembled, while
her thought, cowed by life’s twilight, ran on to meet the approaching
sorrows.
She suddenly heard her son’s footsteps. She trembled, hid the little
book, and blew out the candle.
Volodya entered and stopped in the doorway, confused by the stern look
of his mother as she stood by the wall in a strange, uneasy attitude.
“What do you want?” asked his mother in a harsh, uneven voice.
A vague conjecture ran across Volodya’s mind, but he quickly repelled
it and began to talk to his mother.