Mother

by Maxim Gorky

  “Pavel! Do you hear?”

  One of them slapped his bare feet across the floor, and someone yawned sweetly…

  “The samovar’s ready!” the mother called.

  “We’re getting up!” Pavel answered cheerfully.

  “The sun’s rising!” said the Ukrainian. “And there are clouds flitting around. They’re not wanted today, those clouds…”

  And he came out into the kitchen, tousled and crumpled by sleep, but cheerful.

  “Good morning, nenko! How did you sleep?”

  The mother went up to him and said quietly:

  “You march by his side, Andryusha!”

  “Of course!” the Ukrainian whispered. “As long as we’re together, we’ll march everywhere side by side, be sure of that!”

  “What are you whispering for there?” asked Pavel.

  “It’s nothing, Pasha!”

  “She’s telling me to have a good wash! There’ll be girls watching!” the Ukrainian replied, going out into the lobby to wash.

  “‘Stand up now, arise, working people!’”* Pavel sang quietly.

  The day was becoming ever brighter, and the clouds were moving away, driven by the wind. The mother collected the crockery for tea and, shaking her head, thought about how strange it all was: they were both joking and smiling this morning, but who knows what awaited them at noon. And she herself was for some reason calm, almost joyful.

  They spent a long time drinking their tea, trying to cut down the waiting. And Pavel stirred the sugar in his glass slowly and thoroughly, as always, with a spoon, sprinkled salt carefully onto a piece of bread, the crust that he loved. The Ukrainian shifted his feet about underneath the table – he could never set his feet down comfortably straight away – and, watching the way a ray of sunshine, reflected by the liquid, was playing on the ceiling and the wall, told them:

  “When I was a little boy of ten or so, I wanted to catch the sun in a glass. So I took a glass, stole up and – bang, against the wall! I cut my hand and was given a beating for it. And as soon as I’d been beaten, I went out into the yard, saw the sun in a puddle and started stamping on it. I had mud splashed all over me, and I was given another beating… What was I to do? So I started shouting at the sun: ‘It doesn’t hurt, you red-haired devil, it doesn’t hurt!’ And I kept putting my tongue out at it. That was a comfort.”

  “What made you think it was red-haired?” asked Pavel, laughing.

  “There was a blacksmith opposite us, a red-faced fellow with a ginger beard. A cheerful, kind man. And to my mind the sun looked like him…”

  Unable to contain herself, the mother said:

  “You should be talking about how you’re going to march!”

  “To talk about what’s decided is only to confuse things!” the Ukrainian remarked gently. “In the event of our all being taken away, nenko, Nikolai Ivanovich’ll come, and he’ll tell you what to do.”

  “Very well!” said the mother with a sigh.

  “It’d be good to go outside!” said Pavel dreamily.

  “No, better stay at home for the moment!” Andrei responded. “Why be an eyesore to the police for no reason? They know you well enough!”

  Fedya Mazin came running in, sparkling and with patches of red on his cheeks. Filled with tremors of joy, he dispelled the boredom of waiting.

  “’It’s started!” he said. “The people have begun to stir! They’re slipping out, and everyone’s got mugs like axes. Vesovshchikov and Vasya Gusev and Samoilov have been standing by the factory gates all the time making speeches. They’ve sent a large number of people back home. Let’s go, it’s time! It’s already ten o’clock!…”

  “I’m going!” said Pavel resolutely.

  “You’ll see,” Fedya promised, “after dinner the whole factory’ll be rising up!”

  And off he ran.

  “He’s burning like a little wax candle in the wind!” were the mother’s quiet words in his wake, and she stood up, went out into the kitchen and began putting her things on.

  “Where are you going, nenko?”

  “With you!” she said.

  Tugging at his moustache, Andrei glanced at Pavel. With a quick gesture Pavel straightened the hair on his head and went through to her.

  “I won’t say a word to you, Mama… And don’t you say a word to me! All right?”

  “All right, all right, Christ be with you!” she murmured.

  XXVII

  When she went out into the street and heard the hum of people’s anxious, expectant voices in the air, when she saw groups of people everywhere, at the windows of houses and by their gates, following her son and Andrei with curious looks, a patch of haze appeared before her eyes and began to flicker, changing colour from transparent yellow to turbid grey.

  People said hello to them, and there was something special in their greetings. Her ear caught abrupt, low comments:

  “There they are, the commanders…”

  “We don’t know who’s in command…”

  “I don’t mean anything bad, do I?…”

  In another place someone in a yard was shouting irritably:

  “If the police catch them, that’ll be the end of them!…”

  “They’ve caught them before!”

  The howling voice of a woman leapt in fright from a window into the street:

  “Come to your senses! What are you, a bachelor or something?”

  As they were passing by the house of legless Zosimov, who on account of his injury received a monthly allowance from the factory, he stuck his head out of a window and cried:

  “Pashka! They’re going to yank your head off, you bastard, for the work you’re doing – you wait and see!”

  The mother winced and stopped. That cry had provoked a sharp feeling of anger in her. She glanced into the cripple’s fat, swollen face, and he hid his head, cursing. Then, quickening her pace, she caught up with her son and followed in his wake, trying not to fall behind.

  Pavel and Andrei did not seem to notice anything or to hear the calls that accompanied them. They walked calmly, without hurrying. Then they were stopped by Mironov, an older man, modest and respected by all for his sober, pure life.

  “Are you not working either, Danilo Ivanovich?” asked Pavel.

  “My wife’s nearing her time. Well, and it’s an uneasy sort of day!” Mironov explained, examining the comrades intently before asking in a low voice:

  “They say you mean to make a scene for the director, boys, and break his windows for him, yes?”

  “Are we drunk, then?” exclaimed Pavel.

  “We’re just going to walk down the street with some flags and sing some songs!” said the Ukrainian. “Listen to our songs: they’ve got our beliefs in them!”

  “I know your beliefs!” said Mironov pensively. “I’ve read those bits of paper. Well I never, Nilovna!” he exclaimed, smiling at the mother with intelligent eyes. “Are you off to mutiny too?”

  “You ought to take a walk with the truth, even if it’s just before you die.”

  “Just listen to you!” said Mironov. “It’s evidently true what they’re saying about you taking banned books to the factory!”

  “Who’s saying that?” asked Pavel.

  “It’s what they’re saying! Well, goodbye, be strong!”

  The mother laughed quietly, finding it pleasant that people were saying such things about her. Pavel said to her with a grin:

  “You’re going to go to prison, Mama!”

  The sun was rising ever higher, pouring its warmth into the bright freshness of the spring day. The clouds were drifting along more slowly, and their shadows had become finer, more transparent. They crept softly along the street and over the roofs of the houses, they shrouded the people, and it seemed as if they were cleaning the settlement, wiping dirt and dust
from walls and roofs and boredom from faces. Things were becoming more cheerful, and voices rang out more loudly, drowning the distant noise of working machines.

  Once again, from everywhere, from windows, from yards, there crept or flew into the mother’s ears words anxious and angry, thoughtful and cheerful. But now she wanted to argue, to thank, to explain, she wanted to get involved in the strangely motley life of this day.

  Around a corner of the street, in a narrow lane, a crowd of people had gathered, about a hundred strong, and ringing out in its depths was the voice of Vesovshchikov:

  “They’re squeezing the blood from us, like the juice out of cranberries!” His clumsy words fell upon the people’s heads.

  “That’s right!” the booming sound of several voices replied at once.

  “The lad’s trying!” said the Ukrainian. “Well, I’ll go and help him!…”

  He bent and, before Pavel could manage to stop him, inserted his long, lithe body into the crowd like a corkscrew into a cork. His melodious voice rang out:

  “Comrades! They say there are different peoples living on the earth – Jews and Germans, Englishmen and Tatars. But I don’t believe it! There are only two peoples, two irreconcilable tribes – the rich and the poor! People dress differently and talk differently, but look at the way rich Frenchmen, Germans and Englishmen treat the working people and you’ll see that all of them are Bashi-Bazouks for the working man,* may a bone stick in their throats!”

  Someone in the crowd laughed.

  “And if we take a look from the other side, we’ll see that the French worker, the Tatar and the Turk lead just the same dog’s life as we, the Russian working people, do!”

  More and more people were approaching from the street, and one after another, stretching out their necks, rising up onto their toes, they were silently squeezing into the lane.

  Andrei raised his voice further.

  “Workers abroad have already understood this simple truth, and today, on this bright May Day…”

  “Police!” someone shouted.

  Riding into the lane from the street, straight at the people, were four mounted policemen, brandishing lashes and shouting:

  “Disperse!”

  People frowned, making way for the horses unwillingly. Some climbed onto fences.

  “Some pigs have been sat on horses and here they are grunting – now we’re generals too!” cried someone’s resonant, cheery voice.

  The Ukrainian remained alone in the middle of the lane, and two horses advanced upon him, tossing their heads. He moved aside, and at the same moment the mother grabbed him by the arm and dragged him after her, grumbling:

  “Promised he’d be with Pasha, but here he is risking his neck alone!”

  “Sorry!” said the Ukrainian with a smile.

  An alarming, shattering weariness took hold of Nilovna; it was rising from within and making her head spin, bringing about a strange alternation of sadness and joy in her heart. She wanted the dinner siren to cry out soon.

  They came out onto the square, towards the church. People were standing and sitting around it, densely packed inside the railings, about five hundred cheerful youngsters and little children. The crowd was heaving, and people were lifting their heads up restlessly and gazing into the distance in all directions, impatiently expectant. There was a sense of something heightened, and some looked bewildered, while others conducted themselves with false bravado. There were the quiet sounds of women’s subdued voices, and men would turn away from them in annoyance, while at times a low oath would ring out. A muffled noise of hostile friction enveloped the motley crowd.

  “Mitenka!” a woman’s voice quavered quietly. “Take pity on yourself!…”

  “Lay off!” rang out in reply.

  But Sizov’s steady voice spoke calmly and convincingly:

  “No, we shouldn’t abandon the young ones! They’ve become wiser than us, and they live more boldly! Who stood up for the marsh copeck? They did! That needs to be remembered. They were dragged from one prison to another for that, but all of us were winners from it!…”

  The siren began to roar, swallowing the people’s voices in its black sound. The crowd shuddered, those sitting down stood up, for a moment everything froze and became wary, and many a face turned pale.

  “Comrades!” Pavel’s voice rang out, sonorous and strong. A hot, dry mist scorched the mother’s eyes, and with a single movement of her suddenly strengthened body she was standing behind her son. Everyone turned to Pavel, surrounding him as iron filings do a magnet.

  The mother looked into his face and saw only the eyes, proud and bold, burning…

  “Comrades! We have decided to declare openly who we are; today we are raising our banner, the banner of reason, truth and freedom!”

  A staff, long and white, flashed through the air, dipped, cut through the crowd, disappeared within it and, a minute later, above the upturned faces of the people, there flew up like a red bird the broad sheet of the banner of the working people.

  Pavel raised his arm aloft, and the staff swayed, then a dozen hands took hold of the smooth white wood, and among them was the hand of his mother.

  “Long live the working people!” he cried.

  Hundreds of voices answered him in a booming cry.

  “Long live the social-democratic workers’ party, our party, comrades, our spiritual home!”

  The crowd was seething, and forcing their way through it towards the banner were those who understood its significance: taking their place alongside Pavel were Mazin, Samoilov and the Gusevs; pushing people apart with his head down was Nikolai; while some other people the mother did not know, young and with blazing eyes, were pushing her aside…

  “Long live the working people of all countries!” cried Pavel. And ever growing in strength and joy, a thousand-voiced echo answered him with a sound that rocked the soul.

  The mother grabbed Nikolai’s arm and somebody else’s; she was choking on her tears, but not crying, her legs were trembling, and with shaking lips she said:

  “My dears…”

  A broad smile spread across Nikolai’s pockmarked face as he looked at the banner, mumbling something and reaching out his arm to it, and then suddenly he seized the mother’s neck with that arm, kissed her and burst out laughing.

  “Comrades!” the Ukrainian sang out, drowning the boom of the crowd with his soft voice. “We have now set off on a religious procession in the name of a new god, a god of light and truth, a god of reason and goodness! Far from us is our goal, while crowns of thorns are nigh! Whoever does not believe in the power of truth, whoever does not have the boldness to stand up for it unto death, whoever does not believe in himself and is afraid of suffering – step aside away from us! We call upon those who have faith in our victory to follow us; those who cannot see our goal, let them not go with us, only woe awaits them. Into ranks, comrades! Long live the holiday of the free! Long live May Day!”

  The crowd came together more tightly. Pavel waved the banner; it spread out in the air and began to float forward, illumined by the sun, in a broad red smile…

  “Come then, let us renounce the old world.”

  Fedya Mazin’s resonant voice rang out and was joined by dozens of others in a soft, strong wave:

  “Let us shake off its dust from our feet!…”

  The mother walked behind Mazin with an ardent smile on her lips and looked over his head at her son and the banner. There were glimpses all around her of joyous faces and eyes of different colours, and marching ahead of everyone were her son and Andrei. She could hear their voices – Andrei’s soft, rich voice merged harmoniously into a single sound with her son’s deep bass.

  “Stand up now, arise, working people,

  Stand up now and fight, hungry folk!…”

  And people came running to meet the red banner, calling out, merg
ing with the crowd and then marching back with it, and their cries were extinguished in the sounds of the song, the song which had been sung quieter than the others at home – but in the street it flowed evenly, directly, with terrible strength. There was iron fortitude to be heard in it, and while summoning men to the long road to the future, it spoke honestly of the hardships of the journey. The dark slag of the past and the heavy clod of habitual feelings were melting in its great, serene flame, and the accursed fear of the new was burning out and turning to ash…

  Someone’s face, frightened and joyous, swayed alongside the mother, and a quavering voice exclaimed with a sob:

  “Mitya! Where are you going?”

  Without stopping, the mother said:

  “Let him go – don’t you worry! I was very afraid too – my son’s ahead of them all. The one who’s carrying the banner – that’s my son!”

  “Where are you going, you rogues? There are soldiers there!”

  And suddenly seizing the mother’s arm with her bony hand, the woman, tall and thin, exclaimed:

  “My dear woman, how they’re singing! And Mitya’s singing too…”

  “Don’t you worry!” the mother murmured. “It’s a sacred cause… Just think, there’d be no Christ, would there, if people hadn’t died for His sake!”

  This idea blazed up suddenly in her head and struck her with its clear, simple truth. She glanced into the face of the woman who was holding on tightly to her arm and repeated it, smiling in surprise:

  “There’d be no Christ if people hadn’t died for His, the Lord’s, sake!”

  Sizov appeared beside her. He took off his hat, waved it in time with the song and said:

  “Stepped out openly, Mother, eh? Thought up a song. And what a song, Mother, eh?”

  “The Tsar needs many troops for his army,

  Come on and give your sons up to him now!”

  “They’re not afraid of anything!” said Sizov. “But my son’s in his grave…”

  The mother’s heart began beating too hard, and she started to fall behind. She was quickly pushed aside, squeezed towards the fence, and a dense wave of people flowed swaying past her – there were lots of them, and this gladdened her.