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

The door opened slowly, and bending to pass through, Rybin strode in heavily.

“Here I am!” he said, raising his head and smiling.

He wore a short fur overcoat, all stained with tar, a pair of dark mittens stuck from his belt, and his head was covered with a shaggy fur cap.

“Are you well? Have they let you out of prison, Pavel? So, how are you, Nilovna?”

“Why, you? How glad I am to see you!”

Slowly removing his overclothes, Rybin said:

“Yes, I’ve turned muzhik again. You’re gradually turning gentlemen, and I am turning the other way. That’s it!”

Pulling his ticking shirt straight, he passed through the room, examined it attentively, and remarked:

“You can see your property has not increased, but you’ve grown richer in books. So! That’s the dearest possession, books are, it’s true. Well, tell me how things are going with you.”

“Things are going forward,” said Pavel.

“Yes,” said Rybin.

“We plow and we sow, All high and low, Boasting is cheap, But the harvest we reap, A feast we’ll make, And a rest we’ll take.”

“Will you have some tea?” asked the mother.

“Yes, I’ll have some tea, and I’ll take a sip of vodka, too; and if you’ll give me something to eat, I won’t decline it, either. I am glad to see you—that’s what!”

“How’s the world wagging with you, Mikhail Ivanych?” Pavel inquired, taking a seat opposite Rybin.

“So, so. Fairly well. I settled at Edilgeyev. Have you ever heard of Edilgeyev? It’s a fine village. There are two fairs a year there; over two thousand inhabitants. The people are an evil pack. There’s no land. It’s leased out in lots. Poor soil!”

“Do you talk to them?” asked Pavel, becoming animated.

“I don’t keep mum. You know I have all your leaflets with me. I grabbed them away from here—thirty-four of them. But I carry on my propaganda chiefly with the Bible. You can get something out of it. It’s a thick book. It’s a government book. It’s published by the Holy Synod. It’s easy to believe!” He gave Pavel a wink, and continued with a laugh: “But that’s not enough! I have come here to you to get books. Yefim is here, too. We are transporting tar; and so we turned aside to stop at your house. You stock me up with books before Yefim comes. He doesn’t have to know too much!”

“Mother,” said Pavel, “go get some books! They’ll know what to give you. Tell them it’s for the country.”

“All right. The samovar will be ready in a moment, and then I’ll go.”

“You have gone into this movement, too, Nilovna?” asked Rybin with a smile. “Very well. We have lots of eager candidates for books. There’s a teacher there who creates a desire for them. He’s a fine fellow, they say, although he belongs to the clergy. We have a woman teacher, too, about seven versts from the village. But they don’t work with illegal books; they’re a ‘law and order’ crowd out there; they’re afraid. But I want forbidden books—sharp, pointed books. I’ll slip them through their fingers. When the police commissioners or the priest see that they are illegal books, they’ll think it’s the teachers who circulate them. And in the meantime I’ll remain in the background.”

Well content with his hard, practical sense, he grinned merrily.

“Hm!” thought the mother. “He looks like a bear and behaves like a fox.”

Pavel rose, and pacing up and down the room with even steps, said reproachfully:

“We’ll let you have the books, but what you want to do is not right, Mikhail Ivanovich.”

“Why is it not right?” asked Rybin, opening his eyes in astonishment.

“You yourself ought to answer for what you do. It is not right to manage matters so that others should suffer for what you do.” Pavel spoke sternly.

Rybin looked at the floor, shook his head, and said:

“I don’t understand you.”

“If the teachers are suspected,” said Pavel, stationing himself in front of Rybin, “of distributing illegal books, don’t you think they’ll be put in jail for it?”

“Yes. Well, what if they are?”

“But it’s you who distribute the books, not they. Then it’s you that ought to go to prison.”

“What a strange fellow you are!” said Rybin with a smile, striking his hand on his knee. “Who would suspect me, a muzhik, of occupying myself with such matters? Why, does such a thing happen? Books are affairs of the masters, and it’s for them to answer for them.”

The mother felt that Pavel did not understand Rybin, and she saw that he was screwing up his eyes—a sign of anger. So she interjected in a cautious, soft voice:

“Mikhail Ivanovich wants to fix it so that he should be able to go on with his work, and that others should take the punishment for it.”

“That’s it!” said Rybin, stroking his beard.

“Mother,” Pavel asked dryly, “suppose some of our people, Andrey, for example, did something behind my back, and I were put in prison for it, what would you say to that?”

The mother started, looked at her son in perplexity, and said, shaking her head in negation:

“Why, is it possible to act that way toward a comrade?”

“Aha! Yes!” Rybin drawled. “I understand you, Pavel.” And with a comical wink toward the mother, he added: “This is a delicate matter, mother.” And again turning to Pavel he held forth in a didactic manner: “Your ideas on this subject are very green, brother. In secret work there is no honor. Think! In the first place, they’ll put those persons in prison on whom they find the books, and not the teachers. That’s number one! Secondly, even though the teachers give the people only legal books to read, you know that they contain prohibited things just the same as in the forbidden books; only they are put in a different language. The truths are fewer. That’s number two. I mean to say, they want the same thing that I do; only they proceed by side paths, while I travel on the broad highway. And thirdly, brother, what business have I with them? How can a traveler on foot strike up friendship with a man on horseback? Toward a muzhik, maybe, I wouldn’t want to act that way. But these people, one a clergyman, the other the daughter of a land proprietor, why they want to uplift the people, I cannot understand. Their ideas, the ideas of the masters, are unintelligible to me, a muzhik. What I do myself, I know, but what they are after I cannot tell. For thousands of years they have punctiliously and consistently pursued the business of being masters, and have fleeced and flayed the skins of the muzhiks; and all of a sudden they wake up and want to open the muzhik’s eyes. I am not a man for fairy tales, brother, and that’s in the nature of a fairy tale. That’s why I can’t get interested in them. The ways of the masters are strange to me. You travel in winter, and you see some living creature in front of you. But what it is—a wolf, a fox, or just a plain dog—you don’t know.”

The mother glanced at her son. His face wore a gloomy expression.

Rybin’s eyes sparkled with a dark gleam. He looked at Pavel, combing down his beard with his fingers. His air was at once complacent and excited.

“I have no time to flirt,” he said. “Life is a stern matter. We live in dog houses, not in sheep pens, and every pack barks after its own fashion.”

“There are some masters,” said the mother, recalling certain familiar faces, “who die for the people, and let themselves be tortured all their lives in prison.”

“Their calculations are different, and their deserts are different,” said Rybin. “The muzhik grown rich turns into a gentleman, and the gentleman grown poor goes to the muzhik. Willy-nilly, he must have a pure soul, if his purse is empty. Do you remember, Pavel, you explained to me that as a man lives, so he also thinks, and that if the workingman says ‘Yes,’ the master must say ‘No,’ and if the workingman says ‘No,’ the master, because of the nature of the beast, is bound to cry ‘Yes.’ So you see, their natures are different one from the other. The muzhik has his nature, and the gentleman has his. When the peasant has a full stomach, the gentleman passes sleepless nights. Of course, every fold has its black sheep,