“Yes,” she repeated, looking at me as before. “That’s so. The same
eyes,”—she went on; sank into thought, and hid her face in her hands.
“Everything’s grown so loathsome to me,” she whispered, “I would have
gone to the other end of the world first—I can’t bear it, I can’t get
over it…. And what is there before me!… Ah, I am wretched…. My God, how
wretched I am!”
“What for?” I asked timidly.
Zinaïda made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders. I remained
kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness. Every word she had
uttered simply cut me to the heart. At that instant I felt I would
gladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve. I gazed at
her—and though I could not understand why she was wretched, I vividly
pictured to myself, how in a fit of insupportable anguish, she had
suddenly come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as though
mown down by a scythe. It was all bright and green about her; the wind
was whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a
long branch of a raspberry bush over Zinaïda’s head. There was a sound
of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low over the scanty
grass. Overhead the sun was radiantly blue—while I was so sorrowful….
“Read me some poetry,” said Zinaïda in an undertone, and she propped
herself on her elbow; “I like your reading poetry. You read it in
sing-song, but that’s no matter, that comes of being young. Read me ‘On
the Hills of Georgia.’ Only sit down first.”