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!
XV
Volodya’s mother observed that he continued to play.
She said to him after dinner: “At least, you might get interested in something else.”
“In what?”
“You might read.”
“No sooner do I begin to read than I want to cast shadows.”