She felt sad, but
pleasant and at ease.
"It's all the same!" she thought, stroking her son's hand. "It
can't be helped; it must be so!"
She recalled other such commonplace words, to which she had been
accustomed for a long time; but they did not give adequate expression
to all she had lived through that moment.
"I'll put the dishes on the table; you stay where you are, mother,"
said the Little Russian, rising from the floor, and going into the
room. "Rest a while. Your heart has been worn out with such blows!"
And from the room his singing voice, raised to a higher pitch, was heard.
"It's not a nice thing to boast of, yet I must say we tasted the
right life just now, real, human, loving life. It does us good."
"Yes," said Pavel, looking at the mother.
"It's all different now," she returned. "The sorrow is different,
and the joy is different. I do not know anything, of course! I
do not understand what it is I live by--and I can't express my
feelings in words!"
"This is the way it ought to be!" said the Little Russian, returning.
"Because, mark you, mother dear, a new heart is coming into existence,
a new heart is growing up in life. All hearts are smitten in the
conflict of interests, all are consumed with a blind greed, eaten up
with envy, stricken, wounded, and dripping with filth, falsehood,
and cowardice.
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