But often they sang new songs, the words and music in
perfect accord, sad and quaint in tune. These they sang in an
undertone, pensively and seriously as church hymns are chanted.
Their faces grew pale, yet hot, and a mighty force made itself felt
in their ringing words.
"It is time for us to sing these songs in the street," said
Vyesovshchikov somberly.
And sometimes the mother was struck by the spirit of lively,
boisterous hilarity that took sudden possession of them. It was
incomprehensible to her. It usually happened on the evenings when
they read in the papers about the working people in other countries.
Then their eyes sparkled with bold, animated joy; they became
strangely, childishly happy; the room rang with merry peals of
laughter, and they struck one another on the shoulder affectionately.
"Capital fellows, our comrades the French!" cried some one, as if
intoxicated with his own mirth.
"Long live our comrades, the workingmen of Italy!" they shouted
another time.
And sending these calls into the remote distance to friends who
did not know them, who could not have understood their language,
they seemed to feel confident that these people unknown to them
heard and comprehended their enthusiasm and their ecstasy.
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