Over my poor mother’s grave!’
She murmured in a low voice.
‘That’s not as it is in Pushkin,’ I observed.
‘But I should like to have been Tatiana,’ she went on, in the same dreamy tone. ‘Tell me a story,’ she suddenly added eagerly.
But I was not in a mood for telling stories. I was watching her, all bathed in the bright sunshine, all peace and gentleness. Everything was joyously radiant about us, below, and above us—sky, earth, and waters; the very air seemed saturated with brilliant light.
‘Look, how beautiful!’ I said, unconsciously sinking my voice.
‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ she answered just as softly, not looking at me. ‘If only you and I were birds—how we would soar, how we would fly.… We’d simply plunge into that blue.… But we’re not birds.’
‘But we may grow wings,’ I rejoined.
‘How so?’
‘Live a little longer—and you’ll find out. There are feelings that lift us above the earth. Don’t trouble yourself, you will have wings.’