I want no love, I want no friendship which gets between
my feet and holds me back."

"Bravo! You're a hero! Go say all this to Sashenka. You should have
said that to her."

"I have!"

"You have! The way you spoke to your mother? You have not! To her
you spoke softly; you spoke gently and tenderly to her. I did not hear
you, but I know it! But you trot out your heroism before your mother.
Of course! Your heroism is not worth a cent."

Vlasova began to wipe the tears from her face in haste. For fear a
serious quarrel should break out between the Little Russian and Pavel,
she quickly opened the door and entered the kitchen, shivering,
terrified, and distressed.

"Ugh! How cold! And it's spring, too!"

She aimlessly removed various things in the kitchen from one place to
another, and in order to drown the subdued voices in the room, she
continued in a louder voice:

"Everything's changed. People have grown hotter and the weather
colder. At this time of the year it used to get warm; the sky would
clear, and the sun would be out."

Silence ensued in the room. The mother stood waiting in the middle of
the floor.

"Did you hear?" came the low sound of the Little Russian's voice. "You
must understand it, the devil take it! That's richer than yours."

"Will you have some tea?" the mother called with a trembling voice, and
without waiting for an answer she exclaimed, in order to excuse the
tremor in her voice:

"How cold I am!"

Pavel came up slowly to her, looking at her from the corners of his
eyes, a guilty smile quivering on his lips.

"Forgive me, mother!" he said softly. "I am still a boy, a fool."

"You mustn't hurt me!" she cried in a sorrowful voice, pressing his
head to her bosom. "Say nothing! God be with you. Your life is your
own! But don't wound my heart. How can a mother help sorrowing for
her son? Impossible! I am sorry for all of you. You are all dear to
me as my own flesh and blood; you are all such good people! And who
will be sorry for you if I am not? You go and others follow you. They
have all left everything behind them, Pasha, and gone into this thing.
It's just like a sacred procession."

A great ardent thought burned in her bosom, animating her heart with an
exalted feeling of sad, tormenting joy; but she could find no words,
and she waved her hands with the pang of muteness. She looked into her
son's face with eyes in which a bright, sharp pain had lit it