There was talk in the settlement of socialists who were disseminating leaflets written in blue ink. There was angry writing in these leaflets about practices in the factory, about workers’ strikes in St Petersburg and the south of Russia, and the workers were called upon to unite and struggle for their interests.
Older men who had good earnings at the factory grumbled: “Troublemakers! They should get a smack in the mouth for that sort of thing!”
And they took the leaflets to the office. The youngsters read the proclamations with enthusiasm:
“It’s true!”
The majority, broken by work and indifferent to everything, responded:
“Nothing will come of it – is it really possible?”
But the leaflets agitated people, and if for a week there were none, they would already be saying to each other:
“They’ve evidently stopped printing…”
But on Monday the leaflets would appear again, and again the workers would be making muffled noises.
At the inn and the factory, fresh people that nobody knew were noticed. They made enquiries, scrutinized, sniffed about and were immediately obvious to everyone, some through their suspicious caution, others through their excessive persistence.
The mother understood that this uproar had been caused by the work of her son. She saw how people were gathering around him. And apprehension about Pavel’s fate merged with pride in him.
One evening, Maria Korsunova knocked on the window from the street, and when the mother opened it, she began in a loud whisper:
“Take care, Pelageya, our friends have done it now! It’s been decided there’ll be a search tonight, at your place, Mazin’s and Vesovshchikov’s…”
Maria’s thick lips slapped against one another hurriedly, her fleshy nose wheezed, her eyes blinked and cast sidelong glances one way then the other, looking out for somebody in the street.
“But I don’t know anything, and I haven’t told you anything, and I haven’t even seen you today, d’you hear?”
And she vanished.
Closing the window, the mother sank slowly onto a chair. But consciousness of the danger threatening her son quickly got her back up on her feet; she promptly put her things on, for some reason wrapping her head up tightly in a shawl, and ran to see Fedya Mazin – he was ill and not working. When she arrived at his house, he was sitting by a window reading a book, rocking his right hand in his left with his thumb stuck out. Learning the news, he leapt up quickly, and his face turned pale.
“Well, what do you know…” he murmured.
“What needs to be done?” asked Vlasova, wiping the sweat from her face with a trembling hand.
“Wait – don’t you be afraid!” replied Fedya, stroking his curly hair with his uninjured hand.
“But you’re afraid yourself, aren’t you?” she exclaimed.
“Me?” His cheeks flushed red and, smiling in embarrassment, he said: “Ye-es, damn it… Pavel needs to be told. I’ll send to him right now! You go – it’s all right! They’re not going to hit anyone, are they?”
Returning home, she collected all the books and, pressing them to her breast, spent a long time walking around the house, peering into the stove, underneath it, even into the water bucket. She had thought that Pavel would drop his work and come home straight away, but he did not come. Finally, tired, she sat down on a bench in the kitchen with the books underneath her, and stayed like that, afraid to get up, until Pavel and the Ukrainian arrived from the factory.
“Do you know?…” she exclaimed, without getting up.
“We do,” said Pavel, smiling. “Are you afraid?”
“I am – I’m so afraid!”
“Don’t be!” said the Ukrainian. “It doesn’t do any good.”
“You haven’t even put the samovar on!” remarked Pavel.
His mother stood up and, indicating the books, explained guiltily:
“Well, I’ve been with them all the time…”
Her son and the Ukrainian laughed, and this reassured her. Pavel picked out a few of the books and went to hide them in the yard, while the Ukrainian, putting on the samovar, said:
“It’s not frightening at all, nenko, you just feel ashamed for people spending time on trifles. Grown men’ll arrive with sabres at their sides and spurs on their boots and rummage around everywhere. They’ll look under the bed and under the stove; if there’s a cellar, they’ll climb into the it and they’ll go up into the attic. There they get their faces covered in cobwebs, and it makes them snort. They’re bored, they’re ashamed, and that’s why they pretend to be really vicious people and angry with you. It’s vile work, and they realize it! One time they turned everything over at my place, got embarrassed and simply went away; then another time they took me with them too. Put me in prison, and there I sat for about four months. You do nothing but sit there, then they summon you, soldiers escort you down the street, they ask you something. They’re a foolish lot, they talk some senseless stuff, and after they’ve talked, they order the soldiers to take you back to prison again. And they keep on taking you to and fro – they have to justify their salary! And then they set you free – and that’s that!”
“The way you always talk, Andryusha!” the mother exclaimed.
He was kneeling by the samovar, blowing zealously into its pipe, but at this point he lifted his face, red with the effort, and, smoothing his moustache with both hands, he asked:
“And what way do I talk?”
“As if no one had ever offended you…”
He stood up and, with a toss of his head, began with a smile:
“Is there a soul anywhere on earth that’s not been offended? I’ve been offended so much that I’m already tired of taking offence. What are you to do if people can’t behave any other way? Being offended stops you getting on with things, and brooding on it’s a waste of time. That’s life! There were times when I used to get angry with people, but I’d think about it and see it wasn’t worthwhile. Everyone’s afraid the person next door might hit them, so they try to be quick and box his ears themselves. That’s life, my nenko!”
His speech flowed serenely and pushed the anxiety of waiting for the search aside, his bulging eyes smiled brightly and, although ungainly, he was all in all so lithe.
The mother sighed and wished him warmly:
“God grant you happiness, Andryusha!”
The Ukrainian took a long stride towards the samovar, squatted down in front of it again and murmured quietly:
“If I’m granted happiness, I shan’t refuse it, but I won’t ask for it!”
Pavel came in from the yard, saying confidently: “They won’t find them!” and started having a wash.
Afterwards, while wiping his hands thoroughly and hard, he began:
“If you show them you’re scared, Mamasha, they’ll think: ‘That means there’s something in this house, if she’s trembling so.’ You understand, don’t you, that we want nothing bad: truth is on our side, and we’re going to work for it all our lives – that’s all we’re guilty of! So what is there to be afraid of?”
“I’ll pull myself together, Pasha,” she promised. And after that came a miserable outburst: “But I wish they’d come soon!”
They did not come that night though, and in the morning, forestalling the possibility of jokes about her fear, the mother was the first to start joking about herself: “I got scared before the fright had come!”