"Then why do you hurt him?" "Just so," he answered. He whistled and then added: "Because he is gentle." "Well, suppose he is?" I asked. "What are the gentle ones made for?" He said that in a remarkably quiet tone, and it was evident that at twelve years old he was already sure that the gentle people were created for insults. Each child was wise in his own way, and the more I was with them the more I thought about their fate. What did they do to deserve the wretched, offensive life which awaited them? I reminded myself of Christa and my son, and remembering them, angry thoughts arose in my soul. Do you not forbid the women free birth of children because you fear that they might give birth to some one dangerous and inimical to you? Do you not violate woman's will because her free son is terrible to you, since he is not tied to you by any bonds? You have time and the right to bind your children whom you have brought up and equipped for the affairs of life; but you fear that nobody's child whom you have denied your supervision may grow up into your implacable enemy. There was such a nobody's child in the factory. His name was Stepa. He was black as a beetle, pockmarked, and without eyebrows. His eyes were little and sharp, and he was quick at everything, and very gay. Our acquaintance began with his coming up to me one holiday and saying: "Monk, I heard you are illegitimate. Well, so am I." And he walked alongside of me. He was thirteen, had already finished school and was working in the factory. He walked along, blinked his eyes, and asked: "Is the earth large?" I explained to him as best I could. "Why do you want to know?" I asked. "I need to know. Why should I stick in one place? I am not a tree. As soon as I learn the locksmithing trade, I am going far into Russia, to Moscow, and farther still. I am going everywhere." He spoke as if he were threatening some one. "I am coming!" I watched him closely after this meeting. He had a serious streak in him. He was always where Mikhail's comrades talked, and he listened and squinted his eyes as if taking aim where to send himself. He had a special way of playing tricks. He teased only those who stood near to the boss. Once at dinner, he said: "It is dull here, monk." "Why?" "I don't know, but they are a rotten lot. Work and trouble, nothing more. As soon as I learn my trade I am going to get out of here, quick." Whenever he spoke of his future wanderings his eyes became large and he glanced boldly and had the look of a conqueror, who staked his all on his own strength. I liked this creature, and I felt something mature in his speech. "He won't get lost," I thought to myself as I looked at him. My soul ached for my own son. How was he and what was going to happen to him on this earth? CHAPTER XXIII