"What queer people you are!" said the mother to the Little Russian
one day. "All are your comrades--the Armenians and the Jews and
the Austrians. You speak about all as of your friends; you grieve
for all, and you rejoice for all!"
"For all, mother dear, for all! The world is ours! The world is
for the workers! For us there is no nation, no race. For us there
are only comrades and foes. All the workingmen are our comrades;
all the rich, all the authorities are our foes. When you see how
numerous we workingmen are, how tremendous the power of the spirit
in us, then your heart is seized with such joy, such happiness, such
a great holiday sings in your bosom! And, mother, the Frenchman
and the German feel the same way when they look upon life, and the
Italian also. We are all children of one mother--the great,
invincible idea of the brotherhood of the workers of all countries
over all the earth. This idea grows, it warms us like the sun;
it is a second sun in the heaven of justice, and this heaven resides
in the workingman's heart. Whoever he be, whatever his name, a
socialist is our brother in spirit now and always, and through all
the ages forever and ever!"
This intoxicated and childish joy, this bright and firm faith came
over the company more and more frequently; and it grew ever stronger,
ever mightier.
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