Marie Tarnowska laughed! It was a low, sudden trill of laughter, and she herself seemed startled at the unaccustomed sound. The Sisters turned to look at her with an air of gentle amazement.
But in my eyes Marie Tarnowska had ceased to be the murderess, the Erinnys. Through the criminal in her dress of shame I had caught a glimpse of the little girl in the blue spectacles, the happy little girl who felt that every one loved her. That lonely, tremulous trill of laughter astray on the tragic lips stirred me to the depths; and sudden tears filled my eyes.
Marie Tarnowska saw this, and turned pale. Then she sat down, unconsciously assuming the same chastened attitude as the Sisters, her hands submissively folded, her dark lashes cast down over her long light eyes. For some time there was silence.
“I have read your notes,” I said at last.
“My notes? I do not remember writing them.” Suddenly her voice sounded harsh and her glance flashed at me keen as a blade of steel.
“You wrote them in the prison at Venice, in pencil, in a child's exercise book.”
“It may be so.” Marie Tarnowska breathed a long sigh. “That was a time of dreams,” she said, raising her stricken eyes to mine. “I sometimes dream that this is all a dream. I think I must have fallen asleep one day when I was a little child, at home in Otrada—perhaps in our garden on the swing. I used often to fall asleep on that creaky old swing, reading a book, or looking at the sky. Perhaps I shall wake up soon, and find that none of all these dreadful things are true.” She fingered the broad brown-and-white stripes of her prison-garb and gazed round the dreary room. Then her eyes strayed from the whitewashed walls, bare except for a large ebony crucifix, to the narrow iron-barred window, and back to the Sisters sitting along the wall like a triptych of Renunciation, with folded hands and lips moving silently in their habitual prayer. “Yes, I shall wake up soon and find myself in our old garden again. My mother will come down the path and across the lawn, with her little white shawl on her head; she will call me: 'Mura! Mura! Where are you? Come, child, it is time for tea; and Vassili is asking for you.' Then I shall jump from the swing and run to her and hide my face on her breast. 'Mother, if you knew what a dream I have had—a terrible dream, all about deaths and murders! I thought I had married Vassili, and he was unkind to me—as if Vassili could be unkind!—and I was locked in a prison in Italy—imagine, mother, to be imprisoned in Italy, where people only go for their honeymoon!' And mother will kiss me and laugh at the crazy dream as we go across the lawn together, happily, arm in arm.”
I found no word to say, though her eyes seemed to question me; and her fragile voice spoke again: “Surely, this cannot all be true? It cannot be true that they are all dead. My mother? And little Peter? And Bozevsky? And Stahl? And Kamarowsky? Why, it is like—like 'Hamlet.'” She broke into strident laughter. “Do you remember how they all die in 'Hamlet'? One here, one there, one in the stream, one behind the curtain, drowned, stabbed, strangled—” Suddenly she was silent, looking straight before her with startled eyes.
“Poor Mura!” I murmured, and lightly touched her hand.
At the sound of the tender Russian appellative she turned to me quickly. Then she began speaking under her breath in hurried whispers.