Wild grief and pain from the sores of body and soul, which were
wearied in the struggle with stern life; intense sufferings from
the wounds dealt to man by the iron hand of want--all this was
invested in the simple, crude words and was tossed in ineffably
melancholy sounds toward the distant, empty sky, which has no
echo for anybody or anything.
Foma had stepped aside from the singers, and stared at them with
a feeling akin to fright, and the song, in a huge wave, poured
forth into his breast, and the wild power of grief, with which it
had been invested, clutched his heart painfully. He felt that
tears would soon gush from his breast, something was clogging his
throat and his face was quivering. He dimly saw Sasha's black
eyes; immobile and flashing gloomily, they seemed to him enormous
and still growing larger and larger. And it seemed to him that it
was not two persons who were singing--that everything about him
was singing and sobbing, quivering and palpitating in torrents of
sorrow, madly striving somewhere, shedding burning tears, and
all--and all things living seemed clasped in one powerful embrace
of despair.
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