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

>“He, too. Is it possible?” wondered the mother resentfully, and was greatly surprised to see Natasha put her hand out to him in a kind, glad welcome.

The next to come were two young men, scarcely more than boys. One of them the mother knew. He was Yakob, the son of the factory watchman, Somov. The other, with a sharp-featured face, high forehead, and curly hair, was unknown to her; but he, too, was not terrible.

Finally Pavel appeared, and with him two men, both of whose faces she recognized as those of workmen in the factory.

“You’ve prepared the samovar! That’s fine. Thank you!” said Pavel as he saw what his mother had done.

“Perhaps I should get some vodka,” she suggested, not knowing how to express her gratitude to him for something which as yet she did not understand.

“No, we don’t need it!” he responded, removing his coat and smiling affectionately at her.

It suddenly occurred to her that her son, by way of jest, had purposely exaggerated the danger of the gathering.

“Are these the ones they call illegal people?” she whispered.

“The very ones!” answered Pavel, and passed into the room.

She looked lovingly after him and thought to herself condescendingly:

“Mere children!”

When the samovar boiled, and she brought it into the room, she found the guests sitting in a close circle around the table, and Natasha installed in the corner under the lamp with a book in her hands.

“In order to understand why people live so badly,” said Natasha.

“And why they are themselves so bad,” put in the Little Russian.

“It is necessary to see how they began to live–-”

“See, my dears, see!” mumbled the mother, making the tea.

They all stopped talking.

“What is the matter, mother?” asked Pavel, knitting his brows.

“What?” She looked around, and seeing the eyes of all upon her she explained with embarrassment, “I was just speaking to myself.”

Natasha laughed and Pavel smiled, but the Little Russian said: “Thank you for the tea, mother.”

“Hasn’t drunk it yet and thanks me already,” she commented inwardly. Looking at her son, she asked: “I am not in your way?”

“How can the hostess in her own home be in the way of her guests?” replied Natasha, and then continuing with childish plaintiveness: “Mother dear, give me tea quick! I am shivering with cold; my feet are all frozen.”

“In a moment, in a moment!” exclaimed the mother, hurrying.

Having drunk a cup of tea, Natasha drew a long breath, brushed her hair back from her forehead, and began to read from a large yellow-covered book with pictures. The mother, careful not to make a noise with the dishes, poured tea into the glasses, and strained her untrained mind to listen to the girl’s fluent reading. The melodious voice blended with the thin, musical hum of the samovar. The clear, simple narrative of savage people who lived in caves and killed the beasts with stones floated and quivered like a dainty ribbon in the room. It sounded like a tale, and the mother looked up to her son occasionally, wishing to ask him what was illegal in the story about wild men. But she soon ceased to follow the narrative and began to scrutinize the guests, unnoticed by them or her son.

Pavel sat at Natasha’s side. He was the handsomest of them all. Natasha bent down, very low over the book. At times she tossed back the thin curls that kept running down over her forehead, and lowered her voice to say something not in the book, with a kind look at the faces of her auditors. The Little Russian bent his broad chest over a corner of the table, and squinted his eyes in the effort to see the worn ends of his mustache, which he constantly twirled. Vyesovshchikov sat on his chair straight as a pole, his palms resting on his knees, and his pockmarked face, browless and thin-lipped, immobile as a mask. He kept his narrow-eyed gaze stubbornly fixed upon the reflection of his face in the glittering brass of the samovar. He seemed not even to breathe. Little Somov moved his lips mutely, as if repeating to himself the words in the book; and his curly-haired companion, with bent body, elbows on knees, his face supported on his hands, smiled abstractedly. One of the men who had entered at the same time as Pavel, a slender young chap with red, curly hair and merry green eyes, apparently wanted to say something; for he kept turning around impatiently. The other, light-haired and closely cropped, stroked his head with his hand and looked down on the floor so that his face remained invisible.

It was warm in the room, and the atmosphere was genial. The mother responded to this peculiar charm, which she had never before felt. She was affected by the purling of Natasha’s voice, mingled with the quavering hum of the samovar, and recalled the noisy evening parties of her youth—the coarseness of the young men, whose breath always smelled of vodka—their cynical jokes. She remembered all this, and an oppressive sense of pity for her own self gently stirred her worn, outraged heart.

Before her rose the scene of the wooing of her husband. At one of the parties he had seized her in a dark porch, and pressing her with his whole body to the wall asked in a gruff, vexed voice:

“Will you marry me?”

She had been pained and had felt offended; but he rudely dug his fingers into her flesh, snorted heavily, and breathed his hot, humid breath into her face. She struggled to tear herself out of his grasp.

“Hold on!” he roared. “Answer me! Well?”

Out of breath, shamed and insulted, she remained silent.

“Don’t put on airs now, you fool! I know your kind. You are mighty pleased.”

Some one opened the door. He let her go leisurely, saying:

“I will send a matchmaker to you next Sunday.”

And he did.

The mother covered her eyes and heaved a deep sigh.

 

“I do not want to know how people used to live, but how they ought to live!” The dull, dissatisfied voice of Vyesovshchikov was heard in the room.

“That’s it!” corroborated the red-headed man, rising.

“And I disagree!” cried Somov. “If we are to go forward, we must know everything.”

“True, true!” said the curly-headed youth in a low tone.

A heated discussion ensued; and the words flashed like tongues of fire in a wood pile. The mother did not understand what they were shouting about. All faces glowed in an aureole of animation, but none grew angry, no one spoke the harsh, offensive words so familiar to her.

“They restrain themselves on account of a woman’s presence,” she concluded.

The serious face of Natasha pleased her. The young woman looked at all these young men so considerately, with the air of an elder person toward children.

“Wait, comrades,” she broke out suddenly. And they all grew silent and turned their eyes upon her.

“Those who say that we ought to know everything are right. We ought to illumine ourselves with the light of reason, so that the people in the dark may see us; we ought to be able to answer every question honestly and truly. We must know all the truth, all the falsehood.”

The Little Russian listened and nodded his head in accompaniment to her words. Vyesovshchikov, the red-haired fellow, and the other factory worker, who had come with Pavel, stood in a close circle of three. For some reason the mother did not like them.

When Natasha ceased talking, Pavel arose and asked calmly:

“Is filling our stomachs the only thing we want?”

“No!” he answered himself, looking hard in the direction of the three. “We want to be people. We must show those who sit on our necks, and cover up our eyes, that we see everything, that we are not foolish, we are not animals, and that we do not want merely to eat, but also to live like decent human beings. We must show our enemies that our life of servitude, of hard toil which they impose upon us, does not hinder us from measuring up to them in intellect, and as to spirit, that we rise far above them!”

The mother listened to his words, and a feeling of pride in her son stirred her bosom—how eloquently he spoke!

“People with well-filled stomachs are, after all, not a few, but honest people there are none,” said the little Russian. “We ought to build a bridge across the bog of this rotten life to a future of soulful goodness. That’s our task, that’s what we have to do, comrades!”

“When the time is come to fight, it’s not the time to cure the finger,” said Vyesovshchikov dully.

“There will be enough breaking of our bones before we get to fighting!” the Little Russian put in merrily.

It was already past midnight when the group began to break up. The first to go were Vyesovshchikov and the red-haired man—which again displeased the mother.

“Hm! How they hurry!” she thought, nodding them a not very friendly farewell.

“Will you see me home, Nakhodka?” asked Natasha.

“Why, of course,” answered the Little Russian.

When Natasha put on her wraps in the kitchen, the mother said to her: “Your stockings are too thin for this time of the year. Let me knit some woolen ones for you, will you, please?”

“Thank you, Pelagueya Nilovna. Woolen stockings scratch,” Natasha answered, smiling.

“I’ll make them so they won’t scratch.”

Natasha looked at her rather perplexedly, and her fixed serious glance hurt the mother.

“Pardon me my stupidity; like my good will, it’s from my heart, you know,” she added in a low voice.

“How kind you are!” Natasha answered in the same voice, giving her a hasty pressure of the hand and walking out.

“Good night, mother!” said the Little Russian, looking into her eyes. His bending body followed Natasha out to the porch.

The mother looked at her son. He stood in the room at the door and smiled.

“The evening was fine,” he declared, nodding his head energetically. “It was fine! But now I think you’d better go to bed; it’s time.”

“And it’s time for you, too. I’m going in a minute.”

She busied herself about the table gathering the dishes together, satisfied and even glowing with a pleasurable agitation. She was glad that everything had gone so well and had ended peaceably.

“You arranged it nicely, Pavlusha. They certainly are good people. The Little Russian is such a hearty fellow. And the young lady, what a bright, wise girl she is! Who is she?”

“A teacher,” answered Pavel, pacing up and down the room.

“Ah! Such a poor thing! Dressed so poorly! Ah, so poorly! It doesn’t take long to catch a cold. And where are her relatives?”

“In Moscow,” said Pavel, stopping before his mother. “Look! her father is a rich man; he is in the hardware business, and owns much property. He drove her out of the house because she got into this movement. She grew up in comfort and warmth, she was coddled and indulged in everything she desired—and now she walks four miles at night all by herself.”

The mother was shocked. She stood in the middle of the room, and looked mutely at her son. Then she asked quietly:

“Is she going to the city?”

“Yes.”

“And is she not afraid?”

“No,” said Pavel smiling.

“Why did she go? She could have stayed here overnight, and slept with me.”

“That wouldn’t do. She might have been seen here to-morrow morning, and we don’t want that; nor does she.”

The mother recollected her previous anxieties, looked thoughtfully through the window, and asked:

“I cannot understand, Pasha, what there is dangerous in all this, or illegal. Why, you are not doing anything bad,