delivered his first speech to her about the truth which he had now
come to understand. With the naivete of youth, and the ardor of a
young student proud of his knowledge, religiously confiding in its
truth, he spoke about everything that was clear to him, and spoke
not so much for his mother as to verify and strengthen his own
opinions. At times he halted, finding no words, and then he saw
before him a disturbed face, in which dimly shone a pair of kind
eyes clouded with tears. They looked on with awe and perplexity.
He was sorry for his mother, and began to speak again, about herself
and her life.

"What joys did you know?" he asked. "What sort of a past can you recall?"

She listened and shook her head dolefully, feeling something new,
unknown to her, both sorrowful and gladsome, like a caress to her
troubled and aching heart. It was the first time she had heard such
language about herself, her own life. It awakened in her misty, dim
thoughts, long dormant; gently roused an almost extinct feeling of
rebellion, perplexed dissatisfaction--thoughts and feelings of a
remote youth. She often discussed life with her neighbors, spoke a
great deal about everything; but all, herself included, only
complained; no one explained why life was so hard and burdensome.

And now her son sat before her; and what he said about her--his eyes,
his face, his words--it all clutched at her heart, filling her with
a sense of pride for her son, who truly understood the life of his
mother, and spoke the truth about her and her sufferings, and
pitied her.

Mothers are not pitied. She knew it. She did not understand Pavel