Volodya worked harder than ever at his lessons; he was afraid to hurt
his mother by being lazy. But he employed all his invention in grouping
the objects on his table in a way that would produce new and ever more
fantastic shadows. He put this here and that there—anything that came
to his hands—and he rejoiced when outlines appeared on the white wall
that his mind could grasp. There was an intimacy between him and these
shadowy outlines, and they were very dear to him. They were not dumb,
they spoke to him, and Volodya understood their inarticulate speech.
He understood why the dejected wayfarer murmured as he wandered upon
the long road, the autumn wetness under his feet, a stick in his
trembling hand, a knapsack on his bowed back.
He understood why the snow-covered forest, its boughs crackling with
frost, complained, as it stood sadly dreaming in the winter stillness;
and he understood why the lonely crow cawed on the old oak, and why the
bustling squirrel looked sadly out of its tree-hollow.
He understood why the decrepit and homeless old beggar-women sobbed in
the dismal autumn wind, as they shivered in their rags in the crowded
graveyard, among the crumbling crosses and the hopelessly black tombs.
There was self-forgetfulness in this, and also tormenting woe!