izov appeared at her side. He took off his hat and waving it to the
measure of the song, said:

"They're marching openly, eh, mother? And composed a song, too! What a
song, mother, eh?"

"The Czar for the army soldiers must have,
Then give him your sons----"

"They're not afraid of anything," said Sizov. "And my son is in the
grave. The factory crushed him to death, yes!"

The mother's heart beat rapidly, and she began to lag behind. She was
soon pushed aside hard against a fence, and the close-packed crowd went
streaming past her. She saw that there were many people, and she was
pleased.

"Rise up, awake, you workingmen!"

It seemed as if the blare of a mighty brass trumpet were rousing men
and stirring in some hearts the willingness to fight, in other hearts a
vague joy, a premonition of something new, and a burning curiosity; in
still others a confused tremor of hope and curiosity. The song was an
outlet, too, for the stinging bitterness accumulated during years.

The people looked ahead, where the red banner was swinging and
streaming in the air. All were saying something and shouting; but the
individual voice was lost in the song--the new song, in which the old
note of mournful meditation was absent. It was not the utterance of a
soul wandering in solitude along the dark paths of melancholy
perplexity, of a soul beaten down by want, burdened with fear, deprived
of individuality, and colorless. It breathed no sighs of a strength
hungering for space; it shouted no provoking cries of irritated courage
ready to crush both the good and the bad indiscriminately. It did not
voice the elemental instinct of the animal to snatch freedom for
freedom's sake, nor the feeling of wrong or vengeance capable of
destroying everything and powerless to build up anything. In this song
there was nothing from the old, slavish world. It floated along
directly, evenly; it proclaimed an iron virility, a calm threat.
Simple, clear, it swept the people after it along an endless path
leading to the far distant future; and it spoke frankly about the
hardships of the way. In its steady fire a heavy clod seemed to burn
and melt--the sufferings they had endured, the dark load of their
habitual feelings, their cursed dread of what was coming.

"They all join in!" somebody roared exultantly. "Well done, boys!"

Apparently the man felt something vast, to which he could not give
expression in ordinary words, so