Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Mother by Maxim Gorky (bookstand for reading .TXT) 📖
- Author: Maxim Gorky
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Book online «Mother by Maxim Gorky (bookstand for reading .TXT) 📖». Author Maxim Gorky
Pavel smiled and asked:
“How long do you mean to keep up your jabbering? You gave me one thrashing with your tongue. That’s enough!”
Sitting on the floor, the Little Russian spread his legs around the samovar, and regarded Pavel. The mother stood at the door, and fixed a sad, affectionate gaze at Andrey’s long, bent neck and the round back of his head. He threw his body back, supporting himself with his hands on the floor, looked at the mother and at the son with his slightly reddened and blinking eyes, and said in a low, hearty voice:
“You are good people, yes, you are!”
Pavel bent down and grasped his hand.
“Don’t pull my hand,” said the Little Russian gruffly. “You’ll let go and I’ll fall. Go away!”
“Why are you so shy?” the mother said pensively. “You’d better embrace and kiss. Press hard, hard!”
“Do you want to?” asked Pavel softly.
“We—ell, why not?” answered the Little Russian, rising.
Pavel dropped on his knees, and grasping each other firmly, they sank for a moment into each other’s embrace—two bodies and one soul passionately and evenly burning with a profound feeling of friendship.
Tears ran down the mother’s face, but this time they were easy tears. Drying them she said in embarrassment:
“A woman likes to cry. She cries when she is in sorrow,; she cries when she is in joy!”
The Little Russian pushed Pavel away, and with a light movement, also wiping his eyes with his fingers, he said:
“Enough! When the calves have had their frolic, they must go to the shambles. What beastly coal this is! I blew and blew on it, and got some of the dust in my eyes.”
Pavel sat at the window with bent head, and said mildly:
“You needn’t be ashamed of such tears.”
The mother walked up to him, and sat down beside him. Her heart was wrapped in a soft, warm, daring feeling. She felt sad, but pleasant and at ease.
“It’s all the same!” she thought, stroking her son’s hand. “It can’t be helped; it must be so!”
She recalled other such commonplace words, to which she had been accustomed for a long time; but they did not give adequate expression to all she had lived through that moment.
“I’ll put the dishes on the table; you stay where you are, mother,” said the Little Russian, rising from the floor, and going into the room. “Rest a while. Your heart has been worn out with such blows!”
And from the room his singing voice, raised to a higher pitch, was heard.
“It’s not a nice thing to boast of, yet I must say we tasted the right life just now, real, human, loving life. It does us good.”
“Yes,” said Pavel, looking at the mother.
“It’s all different now,” she returned. “The sorrow is different, and the joy is different. I do not know anything, of course! I do not understand what it is I live by—and I can’t express my feelings in words!”
“This is the way it ought to be!” said the Little Russian, returning. “Because, mark you, mother dear, a new heart is coming into existence, a new heart is growing up in life. All hearts are smitten in the conflict of interests, all are consumed with a blind greed, eaten up with envy, stricken, wounded, and dripping with filth, falsehood, and cowardice. All people are sick; they are afraid to live; they wander about as in a mist. Everyone feels only his own toothache. But lo, and behold! Here is a Man coming and illuminating life with the light of reason, and he shouts: ‘Oh, ho! you straying roaches! It’s time, high time, for you to understand that all your interests are one, that everyone has the need to live, everyone has the desire to grow!’ The Man who shouts this is alone, and therefore he cries aloud; he needs comrades, he feels dreary in his loneliness, dreary and cold. And at his call the stanch hearts unite into one great, strong heart, deep and sensitive as a silver bell not yet cast. And hark! This bell rings forth the message: ‘Men of all countries, unite into one family! Love is the mother of life, not hate!’ My brothers! I hear this message sounding through the world!”
“And I do, too!” cried Pavel.
The mother compressed her lips to keep them from trembling, and shut her eyes tight so as not to cry.
“When I lie in bed at night or am out walking alone—everywhere I hear this sound, and my heart rejoices. And the earth, too—I know it—weary of injustice and sorrow, rings out like a bell, responding to the call, and trembles benignly, greeting the new sun arising in the breast of Man.”
Pavel rose, lifted his hand, and was about to say something, but the mother took his other hand, and pulling him down whispered in his ear:
“Don’t disturb him!”
“Do you know?” said the Little Russian, standing in the doorway, his eyes aglow with a bright flame, “there is still much suffering in store for the people, much of their blood will yet flow, squeezed out by the hands of greed; but all that—all my suffering, all my blood, is a small price for that which is already stirring in my breast, in my mind, in the marrow of my bones! I am already rich, as a star is rich in golden rays. And I will bear all, I will suffer all, because there is within me a joy which no one, which nothing can ever stifle! In this joy there is a world of strength!”
They drank tea and sat around the table until midnight, and conversed heart to heart and harmoniously about life, about people, and about the future.
Whenever a thought was clear to the mother, she would find confirmation of the idea by drawing upon some of her rude, coarse experiences. She now felt as on that day when her father said to her roughly:
“What are you making a wry face about? A fool has been found who wants to marry you. Marry him! All girls must get husbands; all women must bear children, and all children become a burden to their parents!”
After these words she saw before her an unavoidable path running for some inexplicable reason through a dark, dreary waste. Thus it was at the present moment. In anticipation of a new approaching misfortune, she uttered speechless words, addressing some imaginary person.
This lightened her mute pain, which reverberated in her heart like a tight chord.
The next day, early in the morning, very soon after Pavel and Andrey had left, Korsunova knocked at the door alarmingly, and called out hastily:
“Isay is killed! Come, quick!”
The mother trembled; the name of the assassin flashed through her mind.
“Who did it?” she asked curtly, throwing a shawl over her shoulders.
“The man’s not sitting out there mourning over Isay. He knocked him down and fled!”
On the street Marya said:
“Now they’ll begin to rummage about again and look for the murderer. It’s a good thing your folks were at home last night. I can bear witness to that. I walked past here after midnight and glanced into the window, and saw all of you sitting around the table.”
“What are you talking about, Marya? Why, who could dream of such a thing about them?” the other ejaculated in fright.
“Well, who killed him? Some one from among your people, of course!” said Korsunova, regarding the idea as a matter to be taken for granted. “Everybody knows he spied on them.”
The mother stopped to fetch breath, and put her hand to her bosom.
“What are you going on that way for? Don’t be afraid! Whoever it is will reap the harvest of his own rashness. Let’s go quick, or else they’ll take him away!”
The mother walked on without asking herself why she went, and shaken by the thought of Vyesovshchikov.
“There—he’s done it!” Her mind was held fast by the one idea.
Not far from the factory walls, on the grounds of a building recently burned down, a crowd was gathered, tramping down the coal and stirring up ash dust. It hummed and buzzed like a swarm of bees. There were many women in the crowd, even more children, and storekeepers, tavern waiters, policemen, and the gendarme Petlin, a tall old man with a woolly, silvery beard, and decorations on his breast.
Isay half reclined on the ground, his back resting against a burned joist, his bare head hanging over his right shoulder, his right hand in his trousers’ pocket, and the fingers of his left hand clutching the soil.
The mother looked at Isay’s face. One eye, wide open, had its dim glance fixed upon his hat lying between his lazily outstretched legs. His mouth was half open in astonishment, his little shriveled body, with its pointed head and bony face, seemed to be resting. The mother crossed herself and heaved a sigh. He had been repulsive to her when alive, but now she felt a mild pity for him.
“No blood!” some one remarked in an undertone. “He was evidently knocked down with a fist blow.”
A stout woman, tugging at the gendarme’s hand, asked:
“Maybe he is still alive?”
“Go away!” the gendarme shouted not very loudly, withdrawing his hand.
“The doctor was here and said it was all over,” somebody said to the woman.
A sarcastic, malicious voice cried aloud:
“They’ve choked up a denouncer’s mouth. Serves him right!”
The gendarme pushed aside the women, who were crowded close about him, and asked in a threatening tone:
“Who was that? Who made that remark?”
The people scattered before him as he thrust them aside. A number took quickly to their heels, and some one in the crowd broke into a mocking laugh.
The mother went home.
“No one is sorry,” she thought. The broad figure of Nikolay stood before her like a shadow, his narrow eyes had a cold, cruel look, and he wrung his right hand as if it had been hurt.
When Pavel and Andrey came to dinner, her first question was:
“Well? Did they arrest anybody for Isay’s murder?”
“We haven’t heard anything about it,” answered the Little Russian.
She saw that they were both downhearted and sullen. “Nothing is said about Nikolay?” the mother questioned again in a low voice.
Pavel fixed his stern eyes on the mother, and said distinctly:
“No, there is no talk of him. He is not even thought of in connection with this affair. He is away. He went off on the river yesterday, and hasn’t returned yet. I inquired for him.”
“Thank God!” said the mother with a sigh of relief. “Thank God!”
The Little Russian looked at her, and drooped his head.
“He lies there,” the mother recounted pensively. “and looks as though he were surprised; that’s the way his face looks. And no one pities him; no one bestows a good word on him. He is such a tiny bit of a fellow, such a wretched-looking thing, like a bit of broken china. It seems as if he had slipped on something and fallen, and there he lies!”
At dinner Pavel suddenly dropped his spoon and exclaimed:
“That’s what I don’t understand!”
“What?” asked the Little Russian, who had been sitting at the table dismal and silent.
“To kill anything living because one wants to eat, that’s ugly enough. To kill a beast—a beast of prey—that I can understand. I think I myself could kill a man who had turned into a beast preying upon mankind. But to kill such a disgusting, pitiful creature—I don’t understand how anyone could lift his hand for an act
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