XXIX
His mother was sitting alone. It was twilight, and she felt sad.
A light suddenly glimmered somewhere.
Volodya ran in, animated, cheerful, and with large, somewhat wild eyes.
“Mamma, the lamp has been lit; let’s play a little.”
She smiled and followed Volodya.
“Mamma, I’ve thought of a new figure,” said Volodya excitedly, as he placed the lamp in the desired position. “Look. … Do you see? This is the steppe, covered with snow, and the snow falls—a regular storm.”
Volodya raised his hands and arranged them.
“Now look, here is an old man, a wayfarer. He is up to his knees in snow. It is difficult to walk. He is alone. It is an open field. The village is far away. He is tired, he is cold; it is terrible. He is all bent—he’s such an old man.”
Volodya’s mother helped him with his fingers.
“Oh!” exclaimed Volodya in great joy. “The wind is tearing his cap off, it is blowing his hair loose, it has thrown him in the snow. The drifts are getting higher. Mamma, mamma, do you hear?”
“It’s a blinding storm.”
“And he?”
“The old man?”
“Do you hear, he is moaning?”
“Help!”
Both of them, pale, were looking at the wall. Volodya’s hands shook, the old man fell.
His mother was the first to arouse herself.
“And now it’s time to work,” she said.