"And I disagree!" cried Somov. "If we are to go forward, we must know everything."
"True, true!" said the curly-headed youth in a low tone.
A heated discussion ensued; and the words flashed like tongues of fire in a wood pile. The mother did not understand what they were shouting about. All faces glowed in an aureole of animation, but none grew angry, no one spoke the harsh, offensive words so familiar to her.
"They restrain themselves on account of a woman's presence," she concluded.
The serious face of Natasha pleased her. The young woman looked at all these young men so considerately, with the air of an elder person toward children.
"Wait, comrades," she broke out suddenly. And they all grew silent and turned their eyes upon her.
"Those who say that we ought to know everything are right. We ought to illumine ourselves with the light of reason, so that the people in the dark may see us; we ought to be able to answer every question honestly and truly. We must know all the truth, all the falsehood."
The Little Russian listened and nodded his head in accompaniment to her words. Vyesovshchikov, the red-haired fellow, and the other factory worker, who had come with Pavel, stood in a close circle of three. For some reason the mother did not like them.
When Natasha ceased talking, Pavel arose and asked calmly:
"Is filling our stomachs the only thing we want?"
"No!" he answered himself, looking hard in the direction of the three. "We want to be people. We must show those who sit on our necks, and cover up our eyes, that we see everything, that we are not foolish, we are not animals, and that we do not want merely to eat, but also to live like decent human beings. We must show our enemies that our life of servitude, of hard toil which they impose upon us, does not hinder us from measuring up to them in intellect, and as to spirit, that we rise far above them!"
The mother listened to his words, and a feeling of pride in her son stirred her bosom—how eloquently he spoke!
"People with well-filled stomachs are, after all, not a few, but honest people there are none," said the Little Russian. "We ought to build a bridge across the bog of this rotten life to a future of soulful goodness. That's our task, that's what we have to do, comrades!"
"When the time is come to fight, it's not the time to cure the finger," said Vyesovshchikov dully.
"There will be enough breaking of our bones before we get to fighting!" the Little Russian put in merrily.
It was already past midnight when the group began to break up. The first to go were Vyesovshchikov and the red-haired man—which again displeased the mother.
"Hm! How they hurry!" she thought, nodding them a not very friendly farewell.
"Will you see me home, Nakhodka?" asked Natasha.
"Why, of course," answered the Little Russian.
When Natasha put on her wraps in the kitchen, the mother said to her: "Your stockings are too thin for this time of the year. Let me knit some woolen ones for you, will you, please?"
"Thank you, Pelagueya Nilovna. Woolen stockings scratch," Natasha answered, smiling.
"I'll make them so they won't scratch."
Natasha looked at her rather perplexedly, and her fixed serious glance hurt the mother.
"Pardon me my stupidity; like my good will, it's from my heart, you know," she added in a low voice.
"How kind you are!" Natasha answered in the same voice, giving her a hasty pressure of the hand and walking out.
"Good night, mother!" said the Little Russian, looking into her eyes. His bending body followed Natasha out to the porch.
The mother looked at her son. He stood in the room at the door and smiled.
"The evening was fine," he declared, nodding his head energetically. "It was fine! But now I think you'd better go to bed; it's time."
"And it's time for you, too. I'm going in a minute."
She busied herself about the table gathering the dishes together, satisfied and even glowing with a pleasurable agitation. She was glad that everything had gone so well and had ended peaceably.
"You arranged it nicely, Pavlusha. They certainly are good people. The Little Russian is such a hearty fellow. And the young lady, what a bright, wise girl she is! Who is she?"
"A teacher," answered Pavel, pacing up and down the room.
"Ah! Such a poor thing! Dressed so poorly! Ah, so poorly! It doesn't take long to catch a cold. And where are her relatives?"
"In Moscow," said Pavel, stopping before his mother. "Look! her father is a rich man; he is in the hardware business, and owns much property. He drove her out of the house because she got into this movement. She grew up in comfort and warmth, she was coddled and indulged in everything she desired—and now she walks four miles at night all by herself."
The mother was shocked. She stood in the middle of the room, and looked mutely at her son. Then she asked quietly:
"Is she going to the city?"
"Yes."
"And is she not afraid?"
"No," said Pavel smiling.
"Why did she go? She could have stayed here overnight, and slept with me."
"That wouldn't do. She might have been seen here to-morrow morning, and we don't want that; nor does she."
The mother recollected her previous anxieties, looked thoughtfully through the window, and asked:
"I cannot understand, Pasha, what there is dangerous in all this, or illegal. Why, you are not doing anything bad, are you?"
She was not quite assured of the safety and propriety of his conduct, and was eager for a confirmation from her son. But he looked calmly into her eyes, and declared in a firm voice:
"There is nothing bad in what we're doing, and there's not going to be. And yet the prison is awaiting us all. You may as well know it."
Her hands trembled. "Maybe God will grant you escape somehow," she said with sunken voice.
"No," said the son kindly, but decidedly. "I cannot lie to you. We will not escape." He smiled. "Now go to bed. You are tired. Good night."
Left alone, she walked up to the window, and stood there looking into the street. Outside it was cold and cheerless. The wind howled, blowing the snow from the roofs of the little sleeping houses. Striking against the walls and whispering something, quickly it fell upon the ground and drifted the white clouds of dry snowflakes across the street.
"O Christ in heaven, have mercy upon us!" prayed the mother.
The tears began to gather in her eyes, as fear returned persistently to her heart, and like a moth in the night she seemed to see fluttering the woe of which her son spoke with such composure and assurance.
Before her eyes as she gazed a smooth plain of snow spread out in the distance. The wind, carrying white, shaggy masses, raced over the plain, piping cold, shrill whistles. Across the snowy expanse moved a girl's figure, dark and solitary, rocking to and fro. The wind fluttered her dress, clogged her footsteps, and drove pricking snowflakes into her face. Walking was difficult; the little feet sank into the snow. Cold and fearful the girl bent forward, like a blade of grass, the sport of the wanton wind. To the right of her on the marsh stood the dark wall of the forest; the bare birches and aspens quivered and rustled with a mournful cry. Yonder in the distance, before her, the lights of the city glimmered dimly.
"Lord in heaven, have mercy!" the mother muttered again, shuddering with the cold and horror of an unformed fear.