Pavel's eyelids quivered
and fell. His face became softer and brightened with a clear, open
smile. A poignant bitterness smote the mother's heart.
"Will they let you out soon?" she inquired in a tone of sudden
injury and agitation. "Why have they put you in prison? Those
papers and pamphlets have appeared in the factory again, anyway."
Pavel's eyes flashed with delight.
"Have they? When? Many of them?"
"It is forbidden to talk about this subject!" the warden lazily
announced. "You may talk only of family matters."
"And isn't this a family matter?" retorted the mother.
"I don't know. I only know it's forbidden. You may talk about his
wash and underwear and food, but nothing else!" insisted the warden,
his voice, however, expressing utter indifference.
"All right," said Pavel. "Keep to domestic affairs, mother. What
are you doing?"
She answered boldly, seized with youthful ardor:
"I carry all this to the factory." She paused with a smile and
continued: "Sour soup, gruel, all Marya's cookery, and other stuff."
Pavel understood. The muscles of his face quivered with restrained
laughter. He ran his fingers through his hair and said in a tender
tone, such as she had never heard him use:
"My own dear mother! That's good! It's good you've found something
to do, so it isn't tedious for you.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192