The mother looked at her, arose from the bed, and dressing asked:
"Not about myself? Yes; you see in this, in all that I live now, it's hard to think of oneself; how can you withdraw into yourself when you love this thing, and that thing is dear to you, and you are afraid for everybody and are sorry for everybody? Everything crowds into your heart and draws you to all people. How can you step to one side? It's hard."
Liudmila laughed, saying softly:
"And maybe it's not necessary."
"I don't know whether it's necessary or not; but this I do know—that people are becoming stronger than life, wiser than life; that's evident."
Standing in the middle of the room, half-dressed, she fell to reflecting for a moment. Her real self suddenly appeared not to exist—the one who lived in anxiety and fear for her son, in thoughts for the safekeeping of his body. Such a person in herself was no longer; she had gone off to a great distance, and perhaps was altogether burned up by the fire of agitation. This had lightened and cleansed her soul, and had renovated her heart with a new power. She communed with herself, desiring to take a look into her own heart, and fearing lest she awaken some anxiety there.
"What are you thinking about?" Liudmila asked kindly, walking up to her.
"I don't know."
The two women were silent, looking at each other. Both smiled; then Liudmila walked out of the room, saying:
"What is my samovar doing?"