rns into a gentleman, and the
gentleman grown poor goes to the muzhik. Willy-nilly, he must have a
pure soul, if his purse is empty. Do you remember, Pavel, you
explained to me that as a man lives, so he also thinks, and that if the
workingman says 'Yes,' the master must say 'No,' and if the workingman
says 'No,' the master, because of the nature of the beast, is bound to
cry 'Yes.' So you see, their natures are different one from the other.
The muzhik has his nature, and the gentleman has his. When the peasant
has a full stomach, the gentleman passes sleepless nights. Of course,
every fold has its black sheep, and I have no desire to defend the
peasants wholesale."

Rybin rose to his feet somber and powerful. His face darkened, his
beard quivered as if he ground his teeth inaudibly, and he continued in
a lowered voice:

"For five years I beat about from factory to factory, and got
unaccustomed to the village. Then I went to the village again, looked
around, and I found I could not live like that any more! You
understand? I CAN'T. You live here, you don't know hunger, you don't
see such outrages. There hunger stalks after a man all his life like a
shadow, and he has no hope for bread--no hope! Hunger destroys the soul
of the people; the very image of man is effaced from their
countenances. They do not live, they rot in dire unavoidable want.
And around them the government authorities watch like ravens to see if
a crumb is not left over. And if they do find a crumb, they snatch
that away, too, and give you a punch in the face besides."

Rybin looked around, bent down to Pavel, his hand resting on the table:

"I even got sick and faint when I saw that life again. I looked around
me--but I couldn't! However, I conquered my repulsion. 'Fiddlesticks!'
I said. 'I won't let my feelings get the better of me. I'll stay
here. I won't get your bread for you; but I'll cook you a pretty mess,
I will.' I carry within me the wrongs of my people and hatred of the
oppressor. I feel these wrongs like a knife constantly cutting at my
heart."

Perspiration broke out on his forehead; he shrugged his shoulders and
slowly bent toward Pavel, laying a tremulous hand on his shoulder:

"Give me your help! Let me have books--such books that when a man has
read them he will not be able to rest. Put a prickly hedgehog to his
brains. Tell those city folks who write for you to write for the
villagers also. Let them write