Twilight was falling. Volodya grew pensive.
“Let’s go for a stroll, Volodya,” said his mother.
But in the street there were also shadows everywhere, mysterious,
elusive evening shadows; and they whispered in Volodya’s ear something
that was familiar and infinitely sad.
In the clouded sky two or three stars looked out, and they seemed
equally distant and equally strange to Volodya and to the shadows that
surrounded him.
“Mamma,” he said, oblivious of the fact that he had interrupted her as
she was telling him something, “what a pity that it is impossible to
reach those stars.”
His mother looked up at the sky and answered: “I don’t see that it’s
necessary. Our place is on earth. It is better for us here. It’s quite
another thing there.”
“How faintly they glimmer! They ought to be glad of it.”
“Why?”
“If they shone more strongly they would cast shadows.”
“Oh, Volodya, why do you think only of shadows?”
“I didn’t mean to, mamma,” said Volodya in a penitent voice.