She pitied him as
never before.
"Well, I'm not fit for anything but jobs like that!" said Nikolay
dully, shrugging his shoulders. "I keep thinking, and thinking
where my place in the world is. There is no place for me! The
people require to be spoken to, and I cannot. I see everything; I
feel all the people's wrongs; but I cannot express myself: I have a
dumb soul." He went over to Pavel with drooping head; and scraping
his fingers on the table, he said plaintively, and so unlike
himself, childishly, sadly: "Give me some hard work to do, comrade.
I can't live this life any longer. It's so senseless, so useless.
You are all working in the movement, and I see that it is growing,
and I'm outside of it all. I haul boards and beams. Is it possible
to live for the sake of hauling timber? Give me some hard work."
Pavel clasped his hand, pulling him toward himself.
"We will!"
From behind the curtains resounded the Little Russian's voice:
"Nikolay, I'll teach you typesetting, and you'll work as a
compositor for us. Yes?"
Nikolay went over to him and said:
"If you'll teach me that, I'll give you my knife."
"To the devil with your knife!" exclaimed the Little Russian and
burst out laughing.
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