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Updated: June 28, 2025
You see, we must be sure to write a leaflet about Rybin for the village. It won't hurt him once he's come out so boldly, and it will help the cause. I'll surely do it to-day. Liudmila will print it quickly. But then arises the question how will it get to the village?" "I'll take it!" "No, thank you!" Nikolay exclaimed quietly. "I'm wondering whether Vyesovshchikov won't do for it.
"What strange ideas he has," the mother thought, and for a moment she felt like contradicting the Little Russian and telling him that here was she who would have been glad to teach her son good, but knew nothing herself. The door, however, opened and in came Nikolay Vyesovshchikov, the son of the old thief Daniel, known in the village as a misanthrope.
Life grew ever more hurried and feverish; there was a constant rushing from house to house, a passing from one book to another, like the flirting of bees from flower to flower. "They are talking about us!" said Vyesovshchikov once. "We must get away soon." "What's a quail for but to be caught in the snare?" retorted the Little Russian. Vlasova liked the Little Russian more and more.
Every time that Andrey's comrades gathered at the mother's house to read pamphlets or the new issue of the foreign papers, Nikolay came also, sat down in a corner, and listened in silence for an hour or two. When the reading was over the young people entered into long discussions; but Vyesovshchikov took no part in the arguments.
Vyesovshchikov took a big potato, heavily salted a slice of bread, and began to chew slowly and deliberately, like an ox. "And how are matters here?" he asked, with his mouth full. When Andrey cheerfully recounted to him the growth the socialist propaganda in the factory, he again grew morose and remarked dully: "It takes too long! Too long, entirely! It ought go faster!"
He looked at Nikolay mistrustfully and skeptically. Nikolay smiled. "Don't get angry," said the mother jokingly. Nikolay thoughtfully exclaimed: "How shall we get the leaflets about Rybin's arrest to the village?" Ignaty grew attentive. "I'll speak to Vyesovshchikov to-day." "Is there a leaflet already?" asked Ignaty. "Yes." "Give it to me. I'll take it."
Vyesovshchikov sat on his chair straight as a pole, his palms resting on his knees, and his pockmarked face, browless and thin-lipped, immobile as a mask. He kept his narrow-eyed gaze stubbornly fixed upon the reflection of his face in the glittering brass of the samovar. He seemed not even to breathe.
That's our business!" said Andrey, bending his head. Vyesovshchikov asked: "And when are we going to fight?" "There'll be more than one butchery of us up to that time, that I know!" answered the Little Russian with a smile. "But when we shall be called on to fight, that I don't know! First, you see, we must equip the head, and then the hand. That's what I think."
She gasped in a whisper: "Nikolay is out of prison!" "Which Nikolay?" asked Yegor, raising his head from the pillow. "There are two there." "Vyesovshchikov. He's coming here!" "Fine! But I can't rise to meet him." Vyesovshchikov had already come into the room. He locked the door after him, and taking off his hat laughed quietly, stroking his hair. Yegor raised himself on his elbows.
And suddenly he gave a loud short snore and dropped off to sleep, with eyebrows raised high and half-open mouth. Late at night he sat in a little room of a basement at a table opposite Vyesovshchikov. He said in a subdued tone, knitting his brows: "On the middle window, four times." "Four." "At first three times like this" he counted aloud as he tapped thrice on the table with his forefinger.
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