When Pavel had thrown out the word
to which he was wont to attach a deep and significant meaning, his
throat contracted in a sharp spasm of the joy of fight. He was
seized with an invincible desire to give himself up to the strength
of his faith; to throw his heart to the people. His heart kindled
with the dream of truth.
"Comrades!" he repeated, extracting power and rapture from the word.
"We are the people who build churches and factories, forge chains
and coin money, make toys and machines. We are that living force
which feeds and amuses the world from the cradle to the grave."
"There!" Rybin exclaimed.
"Always and everywhere we are first in work but last in life. Who
cares for us? Who wishes us good? Who regards us as human beings?
No one!"
"No one!" echoed from the crowd.
Pavel, mastering himself, began to talk more simply and calmly;
the crowd slowly drew about him, blending into one dark, thick,
thousand-headed body. It looked into his face with hundreds of
attentive eyes; it sucked in his words in silent, strained attention.
"We will not attain to a better life until we feel ourselves as
comrades, as one family of friends firmly bound together by one
desire--the desire to fight for our rights.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122