“Arise, ye branded with a curse!”
Mikhail Lvovich sings. His eyes are fixed on the ground, upon the cold grass, white in the glamorous light of the full, clear moon. It is hard to tell whether he does not wish to or cannot look straight into the eyes of these girls and boys—into these trusting, clean eyes.
And they have gathered round him, how closely they have nestled round him, these pure-spirited young girls; and the young lads, their knees in the grass, follow every movement of his lips, and join in quietly. The bold melody grows, gains in volume. Like an exultant prophecy ring the eloquent words:
In the International
As brothers all men shall meet.
XXXIV
Mikhail has finished the song. For a time no one speaks. Then the agitated voices all ring out together, stirring the heavy silence of the woods.
Clear, girlish eyes are looking earnestly upon Mikhail Lvovich’s morose set face. A clear, girlish voice implores insistently and gently:
“Sing again, please. Be a dear. Sing it once more. I will make a note of the words. I want to know them by heart.”
Natasha approaches nearer and says quietly:
“We will all of us learn the words and sing them each day, like a prayer. We shall do it with a full heart.”