Several days later Vyesovshchikov came in, as shabby, untidy, and disgruntled as ever.

“Haven’t you heard who killed Isay?” He stopped in his clumsy pacing of the room to turn to Pavel.

“No!” Pavel answered briefly.

“There you got a man who wasn’t squeamish about the job! And I’d always been preparing to do it myself. It was my job — just the thing for me!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Nikolay,” Pavel said in a friendly manner.

“Now, really, what’s the matter with you?” interposed the mother kindly. “You have a soft heart, and yet you keep barking like a vicious dog. What do you go on that way for?”

At this moment she was actually pleased to see Nikolay. Even his pockmarked face looked more agreeable to her. She pitied him as never before.

“Well, I’m not fit for anything but jobs like that!” said Nikolay dully, shrugging his shoulders. “I keep thinking, and thinking where my place in the world is. There is no place for me! The people require to be spoken to, and I cannot. I see everything; I feel all the people’s wrongs; but I cannot express myself: I have a dumb soul.” He went over to Pavel with drooping head; and scraping his fingers on the table, he said plaintively, and so unlike himself, childishly, sadly: “Give me some hard work to do, comrade. I can’t live this life any longer. It’s so senseless, so useless. You are all working in the movement, and I see that it is growing, and I’m outside of it all. I haul boards and beams. Is it possible to live for the sake of hauling timber? Give me some hard work.”

Pavel clasped his hand, pulling him toward himself.

“We will!”

From behind the curtains resounded the Little Russian’s voice:

“Nikolay, I’ll teach you typesetting, and you’ll work as a compositor for us. Yes?”

Nikolay went over to him and said:

“If you’ll teach me that, I’ll give you my knife.”

“To the devil with your knife!” exclaimed the Little Russian and burst out laughing.

“It’s a good knife,” Nikolay insisted. Pavel laughed, too.

Vyesovshchikov stopped in the middle of the room and asked:

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Of course,” replied the Little Russian, jumping out of bed. “I’ll tell you what! Let’s take a walk in the fields! The night is fine; there’s bright moonshine. Let’s go!”

“All right,” said Pavel.

“And I’ll go with you, too!” declared Nikolay. “I like to hear you laugh, Little Russian.”

“And I like to hear you promise presents,” answered the Little Russian, smiling.

While Andrey was dressing in the kitchen, the mother scolded him:

“Dress warmer! You’ll get sick.” And when they all had left, she watched them through the window; then looked at the ikon, and said softly: “God help them!”

She turned off the lamp and began to pray alone in the moonlit room.

The days flew by in such rapid succession that the mother could not give much thought to the first of May. Only at night, when, exhausted by the noise and the exciting bustle of the day, she went to bed, tired and worn out, her heart would begin to ache.

“Oh, dear, if it would only be over soon!”

At dawn, when the factory whistle blew, the son and the Little Russian, after hastily drinking tea and snatching a bite, would go, leaving a dozen or so small commissions for the mother. The whole day long she would move around like a squirrel in a wheel, cook dinner, and boil lilac-colored gelatin and glue for the proclamations. Some people would come, leave notes with her to deliver to Pavel, and disappear, infecting her with their excitement.

The leaflets appealing to the working people to celebrate the first of May flooded the village and the factory. Every night they were posted on the fences, even on the doors of the police station; and every day they were found in the factory. In the mornings the police would go around, swearing, tearing down and scraping off the lilac-covered bills from the fences. At noon, however, these bills would fly over the streets again, rolling to the feet of the passers-by. Spies were sent from the city to stand at the street corners and carefully scan the working people on their gay passages from and to the factory at dinner time. Everybody was pleased to see the impotence of the police, and even the elder workingmen would smile at one another:

“Things are happening, aren’t they?”

All over, people would cluster into groups hotly discussing the stirring appeals. Life was at boiling point. This spring it held more of interest to everybody, it brought forth something new to all; for some it was a good excuse to excite themselves — they could pour out their malicious oaths on the agitators; to others, it brought perplexed anxiety as well as hope; to others again, the minority, an acute delight in the consciousness of being the power that set the village astir.

Pavel and Andrey scarcely ever went to bed. They came home just before the morning whistle sounded, tired, hoarse, and pale. The mother knew that they held meetings in the woods and the marsh; that squads of mounted police galloped around the village, that spies were crawling all over, holding up and searching single workingmen, dispersing groups, and sometimes making an arrest. She understood that her son and Andrey might be arrested any night. Sometimes she thought that this would be the best thing for them.

Strangely enough, the investigation of the murder of Isay, the record clerk, suddenly ceased. For two days the local police questioned the people in regard to the matter, examining about ten men or so, and finally lost interest in the affair.

Marya Korsunova, in a chat with the mother, reflected the opinion of the police, with whom she associated as amicably as with everybody:

“How is it possible to find the guilty man? That morning some hundred people met Isay, and ninety of them, if not more, might have given him the blow. During these eight years he has galled everybody.”

The Little Russian changed considerably. His face became hollow-cheeked; his eyelids got heavy and drooped over his round eyes, half covering them. His smiles were wrung from him unwillingly, and two thin wrinkles were drawn from his nostrils to the corners of his lips. He talked less about everyday matters; on the other hand, he was more frequently enkindled with a passionate fire; and he intoxicated his listeners with his ecstatic words about the future, about the bright, beautiful holiday, when they would celebrate the triumph of freedom and reason. Listening to his words, the mother felt that he had gone further than anybody else toward the great, glorious day, and that he saw the joys of that future more vividly than the rest. When the investigations of Isay’s murder ceased, he said in disgust and smiling sadly:

“It’s not only the people they treat like trash, but even the very men whom they set on the people like dogs. They have no concern for their faithful Judases, they care only for their shekels — only for them.” And after a sullen silence, he added: “And I pity that man the more I think of him. I didn’t intend to kill him — didn’t want to!”

“Enough, Andrey,” said Pavel severely.

“You happened to knock against something rotten, and it fell to pieces,” added the mother in a low voice.

“You’re right — but that’s no consolation.”

He often spoke in this way. In his mouth the words assumed a peculiar, universal significance, bitter and corrosive.

At last, it was the first of May! The whistle shrilled as usual, powerful and peremptory. The mother, who hadn’t slept a minute during the night, jumped out of bed, made a fire in the samovar, which had been prepared the evening before, and was about, as always, to knock at the door of her son’s and Andrey’s room, when, with a wave of her hand she recollected the day, and went to seat herself at the window, leaning her cheek on her hand.

Clusters of light clouds, white and rosy, sailed swiftly across the pale blue sky, like huge birds frightened by the piercing shriek of the escaping steam. The mother watched the clouds, absorbed in herself. Her head was heavy, her eyes dry and inflamed from the sleepless night. A strange calm possessed her breast, her heart was beating evenly, and her mind dwelt on only common, everyday things.

“I prepared the samovar too early; it will boil away. Let them sleep longer to-day; they’ve worn themselves out, both of them.”

A cheerful ray of sun looked into the room. She held her hand out to it, and with the other gently patted the bright young beam, smiling kindly and thoughtfully. Then she rose, removed the pipe from the samovar, trying not to make a noise, washed herself, and began to pray, crossing herself piously, and noiselessly moving her lips. Her face was radiant, and her right eyebrow kept rising gradually and suddenly dropping.

The second whistle blew more softly with less assurance, a tremor in its thick and mellow sound. It seemed to the mother that the whistle lasted longer to-day than ever. The clear, musical voice of the Little Russian sounded in the room:

“Pavel, do you hear? They’re calling.”

The mother heard the patter of bare feet on the floor and some one yawn with gusto.

“The samovar is ready,” she cried.

“We’re getting up,” Pavel answered merrily.

“The sun is rising,” said the Little Russian. “The clouds are racing; they’re out of place to-day.” He went into the kitchen all disheveled but jolly after his sleep. “Good morning, mother dear; how did you sleep?”

The mother went to him and whispered:

“Andriusha, keep close to him.”

“Certainly.............