Finally they exiled her to Siberia for ten years. I wanted to
follow her, but I was ashamed and she was ashamed, and I remained here.
Then she met another man--a comrade of mine, a very good fellow, and
they escaped together. Now they live abroad. Yes----"

Nikolay took off his glasses, wiped them, held them up to the light and
began to wipe them again.

"Ah, you, my dear!" the mother exclaimed lovingly, shaking her head.
She was sorry for him; at the same time something compelled her to
smile a warm, motherly smile. He changed his pose, took the pen in his
hand, and said, punctuating the rhythm of his speed with waves of his
hand:

"Family life always diminishes the energy of a revolutionist. Children
must be maintained in security, and there's the need to work a great
deal for one's bread. The revolutionist ought without cease to develop
every iota of his energy; he must deepen and broaden it; but this
demands time. He must always be at the head, because we--the
workingmen--are called by the logic of history to destroy the old
world, to create the new life; and if we stop, if we yield to
exhaustion, or are attracted by the possibility of a little immediate
conquest, it's bad--it's almost treachery to the cause. No
revolutionist can adhere closely to an individual--walk through life
side by side with another individual--without distorting his faith; and
we must never forget that our aim is not little conquests, but only
complete victory!"

His voice became firm, his face paled, and his eyes kindled with the
force that characterized him. The bell sounded again. It was
Liudmila. She wore an overcoat too light for the season, her cheeks
were purple with the cold. Removing her torn overshoes, she said in a
vexed voice:

"The date of the trial is appointed--in a week!"

"Really?" shouted Nikolay from the room.

The mother quickly walked up to him, not understanding whether fright
or joy agitated her. Liudmila, keeping step with her, said, with irony
in her low voice:

"Yes, really! The assistant prosecuting attorney, Shostak, just now
brought the incriminating acts. In the court they say, quite openly,
that the sentence has already been fixed. What does it mean? Do the
authorities fear that the judges will deal too mercifully with the
enemies of the government? Having so long and so assiduously kept
corrupting their servants, is the government still unassured of their
readiness to be scoundrels?"