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Updated: May 5, 2025
The broad figure of Nikolay stood before her like a shadow, his narrow eyes had a cold, cruel look, and he wrung his right hand as if it had been hurt. When Pavel and Andrey came to dinner, her first question was: "Well? Did they arrest anybody for Isay's murder?" "We haven't heard anything about it," answered the Little Russian. She saw that they were both downhearted and sullen.
"He's a brainy old man!" said the Little Russian, nodding his head. "We often have talks with him. He's a fine peasant. Will they let Fedya out soon?" "Yes, one of these days, I suppose. They'll let out all, I think. They have no evidence except Isay's, and what can he say?" The mother walked up and down the room, and looked at her son.
Isay half reclined on the ground, his back resting against a burned joist, his bare head hanging over his right shoulder, his right hand in his trousers' pocket, and the fingers of his left hand clutching the soil. The mother looked at Isay's face. One eye, wide open, had its dim glance fixed upon his hat lying between his lazily outstretched legs.
Listening to his words, the mother felt that he had gone further than anybody else toward the great, glorious day, and that he saw the joys of that future more vividly than the rest. When the investigations of Isay's murder ceased, he said in disgust and smiling sadly: "It's not only the people they treat like trash, but even the very men whom they set on the people like dogs.
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