We began to talk. She told me something of their life in Siberia. “I have come through much already,” she said, shaking her head, “and there is more to come: my heart forebodes evil.”
I remembered how, sometimes, when listening to our free talk on political subjects, she would turn pale and heave a gentle sigh; and then she would go away to another room and remain silent for a long time.
“You and your friends,” she went on, “are on the road that leads to certain ruin—ruin to Vadya and yourself and all of you. You know I love you like a son”—and a tear rolled down her worn face.
I said nothing. She took my hand, tried to smile, and went on: “Don’t be vexed with me; my nerves are upset. I quite understand. You must go your own way; for you there is no other; if there were, you would be different people. I know this, but I cannot conquer my fears; I have borne so much misfortune that I have no strength for more. Please don’t say a word of this to Vadya, or he will be vexed and argue with me. But here he is!”—and she hastily wiped away her tears and once more begged me by a look to keep her secret.
Unhappy mother! Saint and heroine! Corneille’s qu’il mourût[[60]] was not a nobler utterance than yours.
[60]. Said of his son by the father in Corneille’s play, Horace.
Her prophecy was soon fulfilled. Though the storm passed harmless this time over the heads of her sons, yet the poor lady had much grief and fear to suffer.
§2
“Arrested him?” I called out, springing out of bed, and pinching myself, to find out if I was asleep or awake.
“Two hours after you left our house, the police and a party of Cossacks came and arrested my master and seized his papers.”