"
"It's cold," said the sick man. Yakob helped him to rise, and led
him to the fire.
The wood pile burned evenly and glaringly, and the faceless shadows
quivered around it. Savely sat down on a stump, and stretched his
dry, transparent hands toward the fire, coughing. Rybin nodded his
head to one side, and said to Sofya in an undertone:
"That's sharper than books. That ought to be known. When they tear
a workingman's hand in a machine or kill him, you can understand--
the workingman himself is at fault. But in a case like this, when
they suck a man's blood out of him and throw him away like a carcass
--that can't be explained in any way. I can comprehend every
murder; but torturing for mere sport I can't comprehend. And why do
they torture the people? To what purpose do they torture us all?
For fun, for mere amusement, so that they can live pleasantly on the
earth; so that they can buy everything with the blood of the people, a
prima donna, horses, silver knives, golden dishes, expensive toys for
their children. YOU work, work, work, work more and more, and I'LL
hoard money by your labor and give my mistress a golden wash basin."
The mother listened, looked, and once again, before her in the
darkness, stretched the bright streak of the road that Pavel was
going, and all those with whom he walked.
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