"But what sense is there in the work we do? We go half-hungry from
day to day anyhow. Children are born; there's no time to look after
them on account of the work that doesn't give us bread." She walked
up to the mother, sat down next to her, and spoke on stubbornly, no
plaint nor mourning in her voice. "I had two children; one, when he
was two years old, was boiled to death in hot water; the other was
born dead--from this thrice-accursed work. Such a happy life! I
say a peasant has no business to marry. He only binds his hands.
If he were free he would work up to a system of life needed by
everybody. He would come out directly and openly for the truth.
Am I right, mother?"
"You are. You're right, my dear. Otherwise we can't conquer life."
"Have you a husband?"
"He died. I have a son."
"And where is he? Does he live with you?"
"He's in prison." The mother suddenly felt a calm pride in these
words, usually painful to her. "This is the second time--all
because he came to understand God's truth and sowed it openly
without sparing himself. He's a young man, handsome, intelligent;
he planned a newspaper, and gave Mikhail Ivanovich a start on his
way, although he's only half of Mikhail's age.
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