had inflicted upon them; enraged or in tears over the indignities
they themselves had suffered; drunken and piteous, unfortunate and
repulsive. Sometimes the boys would be brought home by the mother
or the father, who had picked them up in the street or in a tavern,
drunk to insensibility. The parents scolded and swore at them
peevishly, and beat their spongelike bodies, soaked with liquor;
then more or less systematically put them to bed, in order to rouse
them to work early next morning, when the bellow of the whistle
should sullenly course through the air.

They scolded and beat the children soundly, notwithstanding the fact
that drunkenness and brawls among young folk appeared perfectly
legitimate to the old people. When they were young they, too, had
drunk and fought; they, too, had been beaten by their mothers and
fathers. Life had always been like that. It flowed on monotonously
and slowly somewhere down the muddy, turbid stream, year after year;
and it was all bound up in strong ancient customs and habits that
led them to do one and the same thing day in and day out. None of
them, it seemed, had either the time or the desire to attempt to
change this state of life.

Once in a long while a stranger would come to the village. At first
he attracted attention merely because he was a stranger. Then he
aroused a light, superficial interest by the stories of the places
where he had worked. Afterwards the novelty wore off, the people
got used to him, and he remained unnoticed. From his stories it was
clear that the life of the workingmen was the same everywhere. And
if so, then what was there to talk about?

Occasionally, however, some stranger spoke curious things never