Elena Kirillovna whispers:
“Yes, Sonyushka, it would be terrible alone. In such moments!”
“We are with him,” insists Natasha vehemently. “We are with him now.”
A smile is on Sofia Alexandrovna’s lips, a smile such as a dying person smiles to greet his last consolation. Sofia Alexandrovna speaks:
“My last consolation is the thought that I am not alone. He is with me. These walls are unrealities, this gaol built by men is a lie. What is real and true is my suffering and I am one with them in my grief. A poor consolation! And yet I, just think, this extraordinary I, Boris, I am dying.”
“I am dying,” repeats Natasha.
Her voice is clouded, and it is fraught with despair. And all three remain silent for a brief while, overcome by the spell of these tragic words.
LIII
Sofia Alexandrovna speaks again. Her voice sounds tranquil, deliberate, measured:
“There is no consolation for the dying. His grief is boundless. The cold moon continues to torment him. A moan struggles to break from his throat, a moan like the wild baying of a caged beast.”