Then another joined the singer, and now, two voices
soar softly and mournfully over the suffocating heat of our narrow
ditch. And suddenly a few more voices take up the song--and the song
bubbles up like a wave, growing stronger, louder, as though moving
asunder the damp, heavy walls of our stony prison.
All the twenty-six sing; loud voices, singing in unison, fill the
workshop; the song has no room there; it strikes against the stones
of the walls, it moans and weeps and reanimates the heart by a soft
tickling pain, irritating old wounds and rousing sorrow.
The singers breathe deeply and heavily; some one unexpectedly leaves
off his song and listens for a long time to the singing of his
companions, and again his voice joins the general wave. Another
mournfully exclaims, Eh! sings, his eyes closed, and it may be that
the wide, heavy wave of sound appears to him like a road leading
somewhere far away, like a wide road, lighted by the brilliant sun,
and he sees himself walking there. . . .
The flame is constantly trembling in the oven, the baker's shovel is
scraping against the brick, the water in the kettle is purring, and
the reflection of the fire is trembling on the wall, laughing in
silence.
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