nown to
us. When the people have freed themselves, they will see for
themselves what is best. Enough, quite enough of what they do not want
at all has been knocked into their heads. Let there be an end of this!
Let them contrive for themselves. Maybe they will want to reject
everything, all life, and all knowledge; maybe they will see that
everything is arranged against them. You just deliver all the books
into their hands, and they will find an answer for themselves, depend
upon it! Only let them remember that the tighter the collar round the
horse's neck, the worse the work."

But when Pavel was alone with Rybin they at once began an endless but
always calm disputation, to which the mother listened anxiously,
following their words in silence, and endeavoring to understand.
Sometimes it seemed to her as if the broad-shouldered, black-bearded
peasant and her well-built, sturdy son had both gone blind. In that
little room, in the darkness, they seemed to be knocking about from
side to side in search of light and an outlet, to be grasping out with
powerful but blind hands; they seemed to fall upon the floor, and
having fallen, to scrape and fumble with their feet. They hit against
everything, groped about for everything, and flung it away, calm and
composed, losing neither faith nor hope.

They got her accustomed to listen to a great many words, terrible in
their directness and boldness; and these words had now ceased to weigh
down on her so heavily as at first. She learned to push them away from
her ears. And although Rybin still displeased her as before, he no
longer inspired her with hostility.

Once a week she carried underwear and books to the Little Russian in
prison. On one occasion they allowed her to see him and talk to him;
and on returning home she related enthusiastically:

"He is as if he were at home there, too! He is good and kind to
everybody; everybody jokes with him; just as if there were a holiday in
his heart all the time. His lot is hard and heavy, but he does not
want to show it."

"That's right! That's the way one should act," observed Rybin. "We are
all enveloped in misery as in our skins. We breathe misery, we wear
misery. But that's nothing to brag about. Not all people are blind;
some close their eyes of their own accord, indeed! And if you are
stupid you have to suffer for it."

CHAPTER VIII

The little old gray house of the Vlasovs attracted the attention of