Sometimes the
image of her son grew before her until it assumed the proportions of
a giant in the old fairy tales. He united within himself all the
honest thoughts she had heard spoken, all the people that she liked,
everything heroic of which she knew. Then, moved with delight in
him, she exulted in quiet rapture. An indistinct hope filled her.
"Everything will be well--everything!" Her love, the love of a
mother, was fanned into a flame, a veritable pain to her heart.
Then the motherly affection hindered the growth of the broader human
feeling, burned it; and in place of a great sentiment a small,
dismal thought beat faint-heartedly in the gray ashes of alarm:
"He will perish; he will fall!"
Late that night the mother sank into a heavy sleep, but rose early,
her bones stiff, her head aching. At mid-day she was sitting in the
prison office opposite Pavel and looking through a mist in her eyes
at his bearded, swarthy face. She was watching for a chance to
deliver to him the note she held tightly in her hand.
"I am well and all are well," said Pavel in a moderated voice.
"And how are you?"
"So so. Yegor Ivanovich died," she said mechanically.
"Yes?" exclaimed Pavel, and dropped his head.
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