Mother by Maxim Gorky (bookstand for reading .TXT) 📖

Russian, warming up. “It’s so plainly evident that it’s downright ridiculous—simply because men don’t stand on an equal footing. Then let’s equalize them, put them all in one row! Let’s divide equally all that’s produced by the brains and all that’s made by the hands. Let’s not keep one another in the slavery of fear and envy, in the thraldom of greed and stupidity!”

The mother and the Little Russian now began to carry on such conversations with each other frequently. He was again taken into the factory. He turned over all his earnings to the mother, and she took the money from him with as little fuss as from Pavel. Sometimes Andrey would suggest with a twinkle in his eyes:

“Shall we read a little, mother, eh?”

She would invariably refuse, playfully but resolutely. The twinkle in his eyes discomfited her, and she thought to herself, with a slight feeling of offense: “If you laugh at me, then why do you ask me to read with you?”

He noticed that the mother began to ask him with increasing frequency for the meaning of this or that book word. She always looked aside when asking for such information, and spoke in a monotonous tone of indifference. He divined that she was studying by herself in secret, understood her bashfulness, and ceased to invite her to read with him. Shortly afterwards she said to him:

“My eyes are getting weak, Andriusha. I guess I need glasses.”

“All right! Next Sunday I’ll take you to a physician in the city, a friend of mine, and you shall have glasses!”

She, had already been three times in the prison to ask for a meeting with Pavel, and each time the general of the gendarmes, a gray old man with purple cheeks and a huge nose, turned her gently away.

“In about a week, little mother, not before! A week from now we shall see, but at present it’s impossible!”

He was a round, well-fed creature, and somehow reminded her of a ripe plum, somewhat spoiled by too long keeping, and already covered with a downy mold. He kept constantly picking his small, white teeth with a sharp yellow toothpick. There was a little smile in his small greenish eyes, and his voice had a friendly, caressing sound.

“Polite!” said the mother to the Little Russian with a thoughtful air. “Always with a smile on him. I don’t think it’s right. When a man is tending to affairs like these, I don’t think he ought to grin.”

“Yes, yes. They are so gentle, always smiling. If they should be told: ‘Look here, this man is honest and wise, he is dangerous to us; hang him!’ they would still smile and hang him, and keep on smiling.”

“The one who made the search in our place is the better of the two; he is simpler. You can see at once that he is a dog.”

“None of them are human beings; they are used to stun the people and render them insensible. They are tools, the means wherewith our kind is rendered more convenient to the state. They themselves have already been so fixed that they have become convenient instruments in the hand that governs us. They can do whatever they are told to do without thought, without asking why it is necessary to do it.”

At last Vlasova got permission to see her son, and one Sunday she was sitting modestly in a corner of the prison office, a low, narrow, dingy apartment, where a few more people were sitting and waiting for permission to see their relatives and friends. Evidently it was not the first time they were here, for they knew one another and in a low voice kept up a lazy, languid conversation.

“Have you heard?” said a stout woman with a wizened face and a traveling bag on her lap. “At early mass to-day the church regent again ripped up the ear of one of the choir boys.”

An elderly man in the uniform of a retired soldier coughed aloud and remarked:

“These choir boys are such loafers!”

A short, bald, little man with short legs, long arms, and protruding jaw, ran officiously up and down the room. Without stopping he said in a cracked, agitated voice:

“The cost of living is getting higher and higher. An inferior quality of beef, fourteen cents; bread has again risen to two and a half.”

Now and then prisoners came into the room—gray, monotonous, with coarse, heavy, leather shoes. They blinked as they entered; iron chains rattled at the feet of one of them. The quiet and calm and simplicity all around produced a strange, uncouth impression. It seemed as if all had grown accustomed to their situation. Some sat there quietly, others looked on idly, while still others seemed to pay their regular visits with a sense of weariness. The mother’s heart quivered with impatience, and she looked with a puzzled air at everything around her, amazed at the oppressive simplicity of life in this corner of the world.

Next to Vlasova sat a little old woman with a wrinkled face, but youthful eyes. She kept her thin neck turned to listen to the conversation, and looked about on all sides with a strange expression of eagerness in her face.

“Whom have you here?” Vlasova asked softly.

“A son, a student,” answered the old woman in a loud, brusque voice. “And you?”

“A son, also. A workingman.”

“What’s the name?”

“Vlasov.”

“Never heard of him. How long has he been in prison?”

“Seven weeks.”

“And mine has been in for ten months,” said the old woman, with a strange note of pride in her voice which did not escape the notice of the mother.

A tall lady dressed in black, with a thin, pale face, said lingeringly:

“They’ll soon put all the decent people in prison. They can’t endure them, they loathe them!”

“Yes, yes!” said the little old bald man, speaking rapidly. “All patience is disappearing. Everybody is excited; everybody is clamoring, and prices are mounting higher and higher. As a consequence the value of men is depreciating. And there is not a single, conciliatory voice heard, not one!”

“Perfectly true!” said the retired military man. “It’s monstrous! What’s wanted is a voice, a firm voice to cry, ‘Silence!’ Yes, that’s what we want—a firm voice!”

The conversation became more general and animated. Everybody was in a hurry to give his opinion about life; but all spoke in a half-subdued voice, and the mother noticed a tone of hostility in all, which was new to her. At home they spoke differently, more intelligibly, more simply, and more loudly.

The fat warden with a square red beard called out her name, looked her over from head to foot, and telling her to follow him, walked off limping. She followed him, and felt like pushing him to make him go faster. Pavel stood in a small room, and on seeing his mother smiled and put out his hand to her. She grasped it, laughed, blinked swiftly, and at a loss for words merely asked softly:

“How are you? How are you?”

“Compose yourself, mother.” Pavel pressed her hand.

“It’s all right! It’s all right!”

“Mother,” said the warden, fetching a sigh, “suppose you move away from each other a bit. Let there be some distance between you.” He yawned aloud.

Pavel asked the mother about her health and about home. She waited for some other questions, sought them in her son’s eyes, but could not find them. He was calm as usual, although his face had grown paler, and his eyes seemed larger.

“Sasha sends you her regards,” she said. Pavel’s eyelids quivered and fell. His face became softer and brightened with a clear, open smile. A poignant bitterness smote the mother’s heart.

“Will they let you out soon?” she inquired in a tone of sudden injury and agitation. “Why have they put you in prison? Those papers and pamphlets have appeared in the factory again, anyway.”

Pavel’s eyes flashed with delight.

“Have they? When? Many of them?”

“It is forbidden to talk about this subject!” the warden lazily announced. “You may talk only of family matters.”

“And isn’t this a family matter?” retorted the mother.

“I don’t know. I only know it’s forbidden. You may talk about his wash and underwear and food, but nothing else!” insisted the warden, his voice, however, expressing utter indifference.

“All right,” said Pavel. “Keep to domestic affairs, mother. What are you doing?”

She answered boldly, seized with youthful ardor:

“I carry all this to the factory.” She paused with a smile and continued: “Sour soup, gruel, all Marya’s cookery, and other stuff.”

Pavel understood. The muscles of his face quivered with restrained laughter. He ran his fingers through his hair and said in a tender tone, such as she had never heard him use:

“My own dear mother! That’s good! It’s good you’ve found something to do, so it isn’t tedious for you. You don’t feel lonesome, do you, mother?”

“When the leaflets appeared, they searched me, too,” she said, not without a certain pride.

“Again on this subject!” said the warden in an offended tone. “I tell you it’s forbidden, it’s not allowed. They have deprived him of liberty so that he shouldn’t know anything about it; and here you are with your news. You ought to know it’s forbidden!”

“Well, leave it, mother,” said Pavel. “Matvey Ivanovich is a good man. You mustn’t do anything to provoke him. We get along together very well. It’s by chance he’s here to-day with us. Usually, it’s the assistant superintendent who is present on such occasions. That’s why Matvey Ivanovich is afraid you will say something you oughtn’t to.”

“Time’s up!” announced the warden looking at his watch. “Take your leave!”

“Well, thank you,” said Pavel. “Thank you, my darling mother! Don’t worry now. They’ll let me out soon.”

He embraced her, pressed her warmly to his bosom, and kissed her. Touched by his endearments, and happy, she burst into tears.

“Now separate!” said the warden, and as he walked off with the mother he mumbled:

“Don’t cry! They’ll let him out; they’ll let everybody out. It’s too crowded here.”

At home the mother told the Little Russian of her conversation with Pavel, and her face wore a broad smile.

“I told him! Yes, indeed! And cleverly, too. He understood!” and, heaving a melancholy sigh: “Oh, yes, he understood; otherwise he wouldn’t have been so tender and affectionate. He has never been that way before.”

“Oh, mother!” the Little Russian laughed. “No matter what other people may want, a mother always wants affection. You certainly have a heart plenty big enough for one man!”

“But those people! Just think, Andriusha!” she suddenly exclaimed, amazement in her tone. “How used they get to all this! Their children are taken away from them, are thrown into dungeons, and, mind you, it’s as nothing to them! They come, sit about, wait, and talk. What do you think of that? If intelligent people are that way, if they can so easily get accustomed to a thing like that, then what’s to be said about the common people?”

“That’s natural,” said the Little Russian with his usual smile. “The law after all is not so harsh toward them as toward us. And they need the law more than we do. So that when the law hits them on the head, although they cry out they do not cry very loud. Your own stick does not fall upon you so heavily. For them the laws are to some extent a protection, but for us they are only chains to keep us bound so we can’t kick.”

Three days afterwards in the evening, when the mother sat at the table knitting stockings and the Little Russian was reading to her from a book about the revolt of the Roman slaves, a loud knock was