In the evening visitors often gathered in his house--Alexey
Vasilyevich, a handsome man, pale-faced, black-bearded, sedate,
and taciturn; Roman Petrovich, a pimply, round-headed individual
always smacking his lips regretfully; Ivan Danilovich, a short, lean
fellow with a pointed beard and thin hair, impetuous, vociferous,
and sharp as an awl, and Yegor, always joking with his comrades
about his sickness. Sometimes other people were present who had
come from various distant cities. The long conversations always
turned on one and the same thing, on the working people of the world.
The comrades discussed the workingmen, got into arguments about them,
became heated, waved their hands, and drank much tea; while Nikolay,
in the noise of the conversation, silently composed proclamations.
Then he read them to the comrades, who copied them on the spot in
printed letters. The mother carefully collected the pieces of the
torn, rough copies, and burned them.
She poured, out tea for them, and wondered at the warmth with which
they discussed life and the workingpeople, the means whereby to sow
truth among them the sooner and the better, and how to elevate their
spirit.
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