But he only looked at me with bewildered eyes. And I drew him away. “We must go quickly,” I said.
Now it was growing dark. I hastened along the winding narrow pathways until in a deserted corner I found what I was seeking: a neglected grave marked by a gray stone bearing a name and a date.
As I gazed at that mound of earth, on which a long-since withered wreath spoke of forgetfulness, a wave of desolation swept over my heart. How sad and empty and useless was everything! Life and hope and love and desire—all empty, all unavailing....
“Who is buried here?” asked Naumoff under his breath. He bent forward and read the name aloud: “Vladimir Stahl.”
Something stirred. Perhaps it was only the dry leaves of the withered wreath, but I was afraid—afraid that I should see Stahl suddenly move and rise up, covered with mold, to answer to his name.
“Vladimir Stahl...” whispered Naumoff again, raising his haggard boyish face and gazing at me, “Mura, Mura, I see you encompassed by the dead.”
Doubtless he meant the tombs which spread around me in a livid semicircle; but to me it seemed that he could discern standing behind me all my dead—my mother and Stahl, and Bozevsky and little Peter.... I uttered a scream as I looked fearfully behind me.
“Why do you scream?” gasped Naumoff; and he also turned and looked round. Then he pointed to the grave in front of us. “Who was this?” he asked in a low voice. “Did he love you?” His eyes flickered strangely. There was horror and lust and frenzy in the gaze he fixed upon me.
I was silent.
“Did he love you? Did he love you?” He pressed closer to me, with parted lips and quickening breath.