on the left were the black masts and rigging of ships, the funnels of
steamers; a half-furled sail hung in one place like a great wing, and
the flags scarcely stirred. Insarov sat down at the window, but Elena
did not let him admire the view for long; he seemed suddenly
feverish, he was overcome by consuming weakness. She put him to bed,
and, waiting till he had fallen asleep, she returned to the window.
Oh, how still and kindly was the night, what dovelike softness
breathed in the deep-blue air! Every suffering, every sorrow surely
must be soothed to slumber under that clear sky, under that pure, holy
light! 'O God,' thought Elena, 'why must there be death, why is there
separation, and disease and tears? or else, why this beauty, this
sweet feeling of hope, this soothing sense of an abiding refuge, an
unchanging support, an everlasting protection? What is the meaning of
this smiling, blessing sky; this happy, sleeping earth? Can it be
that all that is only in us, and that outside us is eternal cold and
silence? Can it be that we are alone . . . alone . . . and there, on
all sides, in all those unattainable depths and abysses--nothing is
akin to us; all, all is strange and apart from us? Why, then, have we
this desire for, this delight in prayer?' (_Morir si giovane_ was
echoing in her heart.) . . . 'Is it impossible, then, to propitiate,
to avert, to save . . . O God! is it impossible to believe in
miracle?' She dropped her head on to her clasped hands. 'Enough,' she
whispered. 'Indeed enough! I have been happy not for moments only,
not for hours, not for whole days even, but for whole weeks together.
And what right had I to happiness?' She felt terror at the thought of
her happiness. 'What, if that cannot be?' she thought. 'What, if it is
not granted for nothing? Why, it has been heaven . . . and we are
mortals, poor sinful mortals. . . . _Morir si giovane_. Oh, dark
omen, away! It's not only for me his life is needed!