I'll tell them: 'I don't ask you to believe me; I want you
just to listen to me!' And if they listen, they will believe."
Both the mother and Rybin spoke slowly, as if testing every word
before uttering it.
"There's little joy for me in this, mother," said Rybin. "I have
lived here of late, and gobbled up a deal of stuff. Yes; I understand
some, too! And now I feel as if I were burying a child."
"You'll perish, Mikhail Ivanych!" said the mother, shaking her head sadly.
His dark, deep eyes looked at her with a questioning, expectant
look. His powerful body bent forward, propped by his hands resting
on the seat of the chair, and his swarthy face seemed pale in the
black frame of his beard.
"Did you hear what Christ said about the seed? 'Thou shalt not die,
but rise to life again in the new ear.' I don't regard myself as
near death at all. I am shrewd. I follow a straighter course than
the others. You can get further that way. Only, you see, I feel
sorry--I don't know why." He fidgeted on his chair, then slowly
rose. "I'll go to the tavern and be with the people a while. The
Little Russian is not coming. Has he gotten busy already?"
"Yes!" The mother smiled.
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