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Book, page 21 / 270 hammer resounded. They sounded so cheerful, so resonant, as in a forest, as on a river when you are mending a boat or building a dam. And in the presentiment of cheerful, harmonious work, I firmly embraced my wife, while she looked above the houses, above the roofs, looked at the young crescent of the moon, which was already setting. The moon was so young, so strange, even as a young girl who is dreaming and is afraid to tell her dreams; and it was shining only for itself. "When will we have a full moon?..." "You must not! You must not!" my wife interrupted. "You must not speak of that which will be. What for? IT is afraid of words. Come here." It was dark in the room, and we were silent for a long time, without seeing each other, yet thinking of the same thing. And when I started to speak, it seemed to me that some one else was speaking; I was not afraid, yet the voice of the other one was hoarse, as though suffocating for thirst. "What shall it be?" "And--they?" "You will be with them. It will be enough for them to have a mother. I cannot remain." "And I? Can I?" I know that she did not stir from her place, but I felt distinctly that she was going away, that she was far--far away. I began to feel so cold, I stretched out my hands--but she pushed them aside. "People have such a holiday once in a hundred years, and you want to deprive me of it. Why?" she said. "But they may kill you there. And our children will perish." "Life will be merciful to me. But even if they should perish--"
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