He sobbed fearlessly—suffocated by remorse and horror. "She has died in despair, and I did not say to her one word of comfort. She was my mother after all, and she suffered in bringing me into the world! And I—have killed her, and I—still live!"
Never as at that moment before the terrible mystery of death had he felt all the greatness, all the value of life. To live! Was it not enough to live—to move, to feel the perfumed breeze of the serene night—in order to be happy? Life! the most beautiful, the most sublime thing which an eternal and infinite will could create! And he lived; and he owed his life to the miserable creature who lay before him, deprived of this highest good! How was it he had never thought of that? Ah! he had never understood the value of life, because he had never seen the horror and the emptiness of death. And now she, she alone, had taken upon herself the task of revealing to him, by the shock of her death, the supreme joy of Life. She, at the price of her own life, had given him birth a second time; and this new moral life was immeasurably greater than the first.
A veil fell from his eyes. He saw the contemptibleness of his passions, of his past griefs and hatreds. Had he suffered because of his mother's sin? Fool! What did that matter? What mattered a fact so trifling in comparison with the greatness of life? And because Olì had given him life, must she not represent to him the kindest of human creatures, to whom he must be eternally grateful, whom he must always love?
He sobbed still, his heart filled with strange anguish through which came to him the joy of mere life. Yes, he suffered; therefore he lived.
The widow drew to his side, took his wrung hands in hers, comforted and encouraged him.
"We'll come downstairs, son; we'll come down. No, don't torment yourself. She has died because she had to die. You did your duty; and she—perhaps, she also did hers—although truly the Lord gave us life or repentance, and bade us live——Let us come down, my son."
"She was still young!" said Anania, somewhat calmed, his eyes resting on the dead woman's black hair, "No, Aunt Grathia, I am not upset, let us stay here a moment. How old was she? Thirty—eight? Tell me," he asked again, "at what hour did she die? How did she do it? Tell me all about it."
"Come downstairs, then I'll tell you. Come!" repeated Aunt Grathia.
But he did not move. He was still looking at the dead woman's hair, marvelling that it was so abundant and so black. He would have liked to cover it with the sheet, but felt a strange fear of again touching the corpse.
The widow performed this act of reverence, then taking Anania's hand, led him away. His eye fell on the small table against the wall, at the foot of the bed; but they went out and sat together on the staircase, the lamp set on the boards by their side.