impotence, she cried
long, gently, and monotonously, pouring out all the pain of her wounded
heart in her sobs. And before her, like an irremovable stain, hung
that yellow face with the scant mustache, and the squinting eyes
staring at her with malicious pleasure. Resentment and bitterness were
winding themselves about her breast like black threads on a spool;
resentment and bitterness toward those who tear a son away from his
mother because he is seeking truth.

It was cold; the rain pattered against the window panes; something
seemed to be creeping along the walls. She thought she heard, walking
watchfully around the house, gray, heavy figures, with broad, red
faces, without eyes, and with long arms. It seemed to her that she
almost heard the jingling of their spurs.

"I wish they had taken me, too!" she thought.

The whistle blew, calling the people to work. This time its sounds
were low, indistinct, uncertain. The door opened and Rybin entered. He
stood before her, wiping the raindrops from his beard.

"They snatched him away, did they?" he asked.

"Yes, they did, the dogs!" she replied, sighing.

"That's how it is," said Rybin, with a smile; "they searched me, too;
went all through me--yes! Abused me to their heart's content, but did
me no harm beyond that. So they carried off Pavel, did they? The
manager tipped the wink, the gendarme said 'Amen!' and lo! a man has
disappeared. They certainly are thick together. One goes through the
people's pockets while the other holds the gun."

"You ought to stand up for Pavel!" cried the mother, rising to her
feet. "It's for you all that he's gone!"

"Who ought to stand up for him?" asked Rybin.

"All of you!"

"You want too much! We'll do nothing of the kind! Our masters have
been gathering strength for thousands of years; they have driven our
hearts full of nails. We cannot unite at once. We must first extract
from ourselves, each from the other, the iron spikes that prevent us
from standing close to one another."

And thus he departed, with his heavy gait, leaving the mother to her
grief, aggravated by the stern hopelessness of his words.

The day passed in a thick mist of empty, senseless longing. She made
no fire, cooked no dinner, drank no tea, and only late in the evening
ate a piece of bread. When she went to bed it occurred to her that her
life had never yet been so humiliating, so lonely and void. During the
last years she had become