WITHOUT LOVE
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creaking. and swaying without moving forwards and that the
drivers were just marking time, stomping their feet on the ground
to keep warm. The broad cart-road ran to one side of the track
over which they were racing and it was on a much higher level.
Legs rose and fell, trampling the still lit stars and there was a
movement of hands, horses' muzzles, cowled heads and sleighs.
It
seemed as though the grey and weary suburban morning was
itself drifting over the clear sky
in
great damp patches towards
the place where
it
sensed the railroad, the brick walls of factory
buildings, heaps of damp coal and the drudgery of fumes and
smoke. The sleigh raced on, flying over ruts and potholes, its bell
jingling frantically. There was still no end to the convoy and it
was high time for the sun to rise, but the sun was still far away.
The sun was still far away. They would see it only after
another five
versts,
after a short stop at the inn, after the message
from the factory director and the long restless wait in his ante–
room.
Then it appeared.
It
entered the manager's office with
them, flooded rapidly over the carpet, settled behind the flower–
pots and smiled at the caged chaffinches by the window, at the
fir trees outside, at the stove and at all forty-four volumes of the
leather-bound Brockhaus encyclopedia.
After this, during Kovalevsky's conversation with the man–
ager, the yard outside was alive and at play, tirelessly scattering
turquoise and amber, wafts of pungent resin from the sweating
pines and beads of molten hoarfrost.
The manager glanced towards Goltsev. "He's my friend,"
said Kovalevsky quickly. "Don't worry, you can talk freely....
So
you knew
Breshkovskaya"~
Suddenly Kovalevsky got up and, turning to Goltsev,
shouted in panic: "And what about my papers? Just as I said!
Kostya, now what shall I do?"
Goltsev didn't at first understand: "I've got our pass–
ports...." .
3: One of ·the founders
.f
tile
Social-Revolutionary party.
