hem vigorously against each other
continued: "But not even the flight of an eagle's wings will enable
anyone to reach that holiday, so we'll make a little one for the first
of May. It will be jolly."

His words and his vivacity dispelled the alarm excited in the mother's
heart by Rybin. The Little Russian walked up and down the room, his
feet sounding on the floor. He rubbed his head with one hand and his
chest with the other, and spoke looking at the floor:

"You know, sometimes you have a wonderful feeling living in your heart.
It seems to you that wherever you go, all men are comrades; all burn
with one and the same fire; all are merry; all are good. Without words
they all understand one another; and no one wants to hinder or insult
the other. No one feels the need of it. All live in unison, but each
heart sings its own song. And the songs flow like brooks into one
stream, swelling into a huge river of bright joys, rolling free and
wide down its course. And when you think that this will be--that it
cannot help being if we so wish it--then the wonderstruck heart melts
with joy. You feel like weeping--you feel so happy."

He spoke and looked as if he were searching something within himself.
The mother listened and tried not to stir, so as not to disturb him and
interrupt his speech. She always listened to him with more attention
than to anybody else. He spoke more simply than all the rest, and his
words gripped her heart more powerfully. Pavel, too, was probably
looking to the future. How could it be otherwise, when one is
following such a course of life? But when he looked into the remote
future it was always by himself; he never spoke of what he saw. This
Little Russian, however, it seemed to her, was always there with a part
of his heart; the legend of the future holiday for all upon earth,
always sounded in his speech. This legend rendered the meaning of her
son's life, of his work, and that of all of his comrades, clear to the
mother.

"And when you wake up," continued the Little Russian, tossing his head
and letting his hands drop alongside his body, "and look around, you
see it's all filthy and cold. All are tired and angry; human life is
all churned up like mud on a busy highway, and trodden underfoot!"

He stopped in front of the mother, and with deep sorrow in his eyes,
and shaking his head, added in a low, sad voice:

"Yes, it hurts, but you must--you must distrust man; you must fear him