"
A lamp burned on the wall, illuminating a dark spot of dampness and
pictures from journals. On the floor old pails were lying around,
fragments of slate iron. A large, bright star out in the high
darkness shone into the window. The odor of mildew, paint, and damp
earth filled the room.
Ignaty was dressed in a thick autumn overcoat of shaggy material.
It pleased him; the mother observed how he stroked it admiringly
with the palm of his hand, how he looked at himself, clumsily
turning his powerful neck. Her bosom beat tenderly with, "My dears,
my children, my own."
"There!" said Ignaty, rising. "You'll remember, then? First you
go to Muratov and ask for grandfather."
"I remember."
But Ignaty was still distrustful of Nikolay's memory, and reiterated
all the instructions, words, and signs, and finally extended his
hand to him, saying:
"That's all now. Good-by, comrade. Give my regards to them. I'm
alive and strong. The people there are good--you'll see." He cast
a satisfied glance down at himself, stroked the overcoat, and asked
the mother, "Shall I go?"
"Can you find the way?"
"Yes. Good-by, then, dear comrades."
He walked off, raising his shoulders high, thrusting out his chest,
with his new hat cocked to one side, and his hands deep in his
pockets in most dignified fashion.
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