Sofia Alexandrovna now and again wrings her hands, and as she begins to speak her voice is agitated and heavy with grief:
“What can one think at such moments! The moon, long dead, looks in. There are five steps from the door to the window, four steps across. The mind springs feverishly from object to object. That the execution is to take place on the morrow is the one thing you try not to think of. Stubbornly you repel the thought. But it remains, it refuses to depart, it throttles the soul with an oppressive, horrible nightmare. The anguish is intense and enfeebling. But I do not wish my gaolers and all these officials who are come to me to see my anguish. I will be calm. And yet what anguish—if only, lifting up my pale face, I could cry aloud to the pale moon!”
Elena Kirillovna whispers faintly:
“Terrible, Sonyushka.”
There are tears in her voice—simple, old-womanish, grandmotherly tears.
LII
Sofia Alexandrovna, ignoring the interruption, continues:
“Why should I really go to my death boldly and resolutely? Is it not all the same? I shall die in the courtyard, in the dark of night. Whether I die boldly, or weep like a coward, or beg for mercy, or resist the executioner—is it not all the same? No one will know how I died. I shall face death alone. Why should I really suffer this wild anguish? I will raise up my voice to wail and to weep, and I will shake the whole gaol with my despairing cries, and I will awake the town, the so-called free town, which is only a larger gaol—so that I shall not suffer alone, but that others shall share in my last agony, in my last dread. But no, I won’t do that. It is my fate to die alone.”
Natasha rises, trembles, presses her mother’s cold hand in hers, and says:
“Mamma, mamma, it is terrible, if alone. No, don’t say that he felt alone. We shall be with him.”