his thin, downy mustache, and looked oddly askance into the corner.
She grew anxious for her son and pitied him.

"Why do you do this, Pasha?"

He raised his head, looked at her, and said in a low, calm voice:

"I want to know the truth."

His voice sounded placid, but firm; and his eyes flashed resolution.
She understood with her heart that her son had consecrated himself
forever to something mysterious and awful. Everything in life had
always appeared to her inevitable; she was accustomed to submit
without thought, and now, too, she only wept softly, finding no
words, but in her heart she was oppressed with sorrow and distress.

"Don't cry," said Pavel, kindly and softly; and it seemed to her
that he was bidding her farewell.

"Think what kind of a life you are leading. You are forty years
old, and have you lived? Father beat you. I understand now that he
avenged his wretchedness on your body, the wretchedness of his life.
It pressed upon him, and he did not know whence it came. He worked
for thirty years; he began to work when the whole factory occupied
but two buildings; now there are seven of them. The mills grow, and
people die, working for them."

She listened to him eagerly and awestruck. His eyes burned with a
beautiful radiance. Leaning forward on the table he moved nearer to
his mother, and looking straight into her face, wet with tears, he