This Little Russian, however, it seemed to
her, was always there with a part of his heart; the legend of the
future holiday for all upon earth, always sounded in his speech.
This legend rendered the meaning of her son's life, of his work,
and that of all of his comrades, clear to the mother.
"And when you wake up," continued the Little Russian, tossing his
head and letting his hands drop alongside his body, "and look around,
you see it's all filthy and cold. All are tired and angry; human
life is all churned up like mud on a busy highway, and trodden underfoot!"
He stopped in front of the mother, and with deep sorrow in his eyes,
and shaking his head, added in a low, sad voice:
"Yes, it hurts, but you must--you must distrust man; you must fear
him, and even hate him! Man is divided, he is cut in two by life.
You'd like only to love him; but how is it possible? How can you
forgive a man if he goes against you like a wild beast, does not
recognize that there is a living soul in you, and kicks your face--
a human face! You must not forgive. It's not for yourself that
you mustn't. I'd stand all the insults as far as I myself am
concerned; but I don't want to show indulgence for insults.
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