The Mother

by Maxim Gorky

  “How did you get away?” the mother asked.

  He sat down awkwardly on the edge of the sofa and, shrugging his shoulders in embarrassment, said:

  “The chance came my way! I was taking exercise, and some criminals started hitting a jailer. There’s this one, used to be a gendarme, but was discharged for thieving, he spies, informs, gives no one any peace! They’re hitting him and there’s a commotion, the jailers are scared, they’re running around blowing whistles. I see the gates are open, the square, the town. And off I went, unhurriedly. Like in a dream. Got a little way away and came to my senses – where am I to go? I look, and the prison gates are already shut…”

  “Hm!” said Yegor. “You should have gone back, sir, knocked politely on the door and asked them to let you in. You know: ‘Sorry, I got a bit carried away…’”

  “Yes,” Nikolai continued with a grin, “it’s silliness. But all the same, I feel awkward about my comrades, not saying anything to anyone… I’m walking along, and I see some people carrying a dead child. I followed the coffin, bowed my head, I’m not looking at anyone. I sat a while at the graveyard, got a breath of air, and this one idea came into my head…”

  “One?” asked Yegor, adding with a sigh: “I don’t suppose it’s that cramped in there…”

  Vesovshchikov was not offended, but laughed and tossed his head.

  “Well, my head’s not as empty now as it used to be. But you’re still ill, Yegor Ivanovich…”

  “One does what one can!” Yegor replied with a chesty cough. “Carry on!”

  “Then I went to the zemstvo museum. Walked around for a while there, had a look, and all the time I’m thinking: ‘So, then, where do I go now?’ Even got angry with myself. And I was really hungry! Went outside, and I’m walking around and feeling annoyed… I see the police are looking closely at everyone. ‘Well,’ I think, ‘with a mug like mine I’ll soon be facing divine judgement!…’ Suddenly Nilovna’s running towards me, I stepped aside and then followed her – and that’s it!”

  “And I didn’t even notice you!” said the mother guiltily. She was examining Vesovshchikov, and she thought he seemed to have got lighter.

  “My comrades are sure to be worried,” said Nikolai, scratching his head.

  “And don’t you feel sorry for the authorities? They’re worried too, aren’t they?” remarked Yegor. He opened his mouth and started moving his lips, as though he were chewing the air. “Joking aside, though! You need to be hidden, which isn’t easy, albeit pleasant. If I could get up…” He gasped for breath, threw his hands onto his chest and with weak movements began rubbing it.

  “You’re seriously ill, Yegor Ivanovich!” said Nikolai, lowering his head. The mother sighed and cast her eyes anxiously around the cramped little room.

  “That’s my personal business!” replied Yegor. “Ask about Pavel, Mamasha – there’s no need for play-acting!”

  Vesovshchikov gave a broad smile.

  “Pavel’s all right! He’s well. He’s like a sort of elder for us there. He talks with the authorities and generally gives the orders. He’s well respected…”

  Vlasova nodded her head, listening to Vesovshchikov’s account, and threw sidelong glances at Yegor’s swollen, bluish face. Immobile, frozen, bereft of expression, it seemed strangely flat, and only the sparkle in its eyes was lively and merry.

  “You might give me something to eat, honest to God, I’m really hungry!” Nikolai exclaimed all of a sudden.

  “Mamasha, there’s bread on the shelf, then go into the corridor and knock at the second door on the left. A woman’ll open it; tell her to come here and bring everything she has that’s edible with her.”

  “What do you mean, everything?” Nikolai protested.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not a lot…”

  The mother went out and knocked at the door, and, while listening to the quietness behind it, she thought sadly of Yegor:

  “He’s dying…”

  “Who is it?” enquired a voice on the other side of the door.

  “From Yegor Ivanovich!” the mother replied in a low voice. “He’s asking for you…”

  “I’ll be there in a moment!” came the reply, but the door remained unopened. The mother waited a little and then knocked again. This time the door opened quickly, and out into the corridor came a tall woman in glasses. Hurriedly straightening the rumpled sleeve of her cardigan, she asked the mother sternly:

  “What is it you want?”

  “I’ve come from Yegor Ivanovich…”

  “Aha! Let’s go. Oh, but I know you!” the woman exclaimed quietly. “Hello! It’s dark here…”

  Vlasova looked at her and remembered that she had occasionally visited Nikolai.

  “All friends!” flashed through her head.

  Advancing on Vlasova, the woman made her go on ahead, while she, following behind, asked:

  “Is he in a bad way?”

  “Yes, he’s lying down. He wanted you to bring something to eat…”

  “Well, that’s not necessary…”

  As they went into Yegor’s room, they were greeted by his wheezing:

  “I’m heading for my forefathers, my friend. Lyudmila Vasilyevna, this man left prison without the permission of the authorities, the audacious fellow! First of all feed him and then hide him somewhere.”

  The woman nodded her head and, gazing attentively into the sick man’s face, said sternly:

  “You should have sent for me, Yegor, just as soon as these people got here! And I can see that you’ve failed to take your medicine twice – such negligence! Comrades, go to my room! People will soon be here from the hospital for Yegor.”

  “Am I going to hospital, after all?” asked Yegor.

  “Yes. I’ll be there with you.”

  “There too? Oh Lord!”

  “Don’t be silly…”

  While talking, the woman straightened the blanket at Yegor’s chest, examined Nikolai intently and looked to check the amount of medicine in a phial. She spoke in an even, low voice, her movements were smooth, her face was pale and her dark brows almost met above the bridge of her nose. The mother did not like her face – it seemed haughty, and the look of the eyes was unsmiling, lustreless. And she spoke as though she were giving orders.

  “We’re leaving!” she continued. “I’ll be back soon! Give Yegor a tablespoon of this. Don’t let him talk…”

  And she left, taking Nikolai away with her.

  “A wonderful woman!” said Yegor with a sigh. “A magnificent woman… You ought to work with her, Mamasha – she gets very tired…”

  “You stop talking! Here, better take this!…” the mother told him gently.

  He swallowed the medicine and, screwing up one eye, continued:

  “I’m going to die anyway, even if I do stay silent…”

  He looked the mother in the face with the other eye, and his lips parted slowly into a smile. The mother bent her head, and an acute feeling of pity prompted her tears.

  “It’s all right, it’s natural… The pleasure of living entails the duty of dying…”

  The mother put a hand on his head and said quietly once again:

  “Be quiet, eh?…”

  He closed his eyes, as though listening to the wheezing in his chest, and continued stubbornly:

  “It’s pointless being quiet, Mamasha! What will I gain from silence? A few extra seconds of death throes, whereas I lose the pleasure of chatting with a good person. I don’t suppose there are such good people in the other world as there are in this one…”

  The mother interrupted his talking uneasily:

  “She’ll come back, the fine lady, and she’ll tell me off because you’re talking…”

  “She’s not a fine lady, but a revolutionary, a comrade, a wonderful soul. She definitely will tell you off, Mam
asha. She tells everyone off all the time…”

  And slowly, making an effort to move his lips, Yegor began telling the story of his neighbour’s life. His eyes were smiling, and the mother could see he was deliberately teasing her, but, gazing at his face, covered in a moist shade of blue, she thought anxiously:

  “He’s going to die…”

  Lyudmila came in and, closing the door carefully behind her, began addressing Vlasova:

  “It’s essential that your acquaintance change his clothes and get away from here as quickly as possible, so can you go straight away, Pelageya Nilovna, get some clothes for him and bring everything here? It’s a shame Sofia’s not here – hiding people is her speciality.”

  “She’s coming back tomorrow!” Vlasova remarked, throwing her shawl over her shoulders.

  Every time she was given some sort of errand, she was gripped by a powerful desire to carry the work out quickly and well, and she was no longer able to think of anything other than her task. And now, preoccupied, she lowered her eyebrows and asked in a businesslike way:

  “How do you think he should be dressed?”

  “It doesn’t matter! He’ll be going at night…”

  “It’s worse at night – not so many people on the street, more watching, and he’s not very cunning…”

  Yegor laughed hoarsely.

  “Can I come and see you at the hospital?” the mother asked.

  Coughing, he nodded his head. Lyudmila’s dark eyes looked into the mother’s face, and she suggested:

  “Do you want to take turns with me being with him? Yes? Good! But for now, go quickly…”

  Taking the mother gently, but firmly, by the arm, she led her out through the door and there said quietly:

  “Don’t be offended by my sending you packing! But talking’s bad for him… And I do still have hope…”

  She clenched her fists, and her fingers cracked, and her eyelids dropped wearily over her eyes…

  This explanation embarrassed the mother, and she murmured:

  “There’s no need…”

  “Look to see there are no spies!” the woman said quietly. Lifting her hands to her face, she gave her temples a rub; her lips were quivering, and her face had become softer.

  “I know!…” the mother answered her, not without pride.

  After going out through the gates, she stopped for a moment to straighten her shawl and, imperceptibly, but vigilantly, looked around. By now she was almost infallible in her ability to distinguish a spy in a crowd in the street. Quite familiar to her were the accentuated unconcern of the walk, the strained nonchalance of the gestures, the expression of exhaustion and boredom on the face and, poorly concealed behind it all, the wary, guilty flickering of anxious, unpleasantly sharp eyes.

  She spotted no familiar face on this occasion and set off unhurriedly down the street, then hired a cab and told the cabman to take her to the market. Buying clothes for Nikolai, she haggled hard with the sellers and, incidentally, cursed her drunkard of a husband for whom she had to buy a complete new set of clothes almost monthly. This invention had little effect on the traders, but she herself was very pleased with it; she had worked out on the way that the police would naturally understand the need for Nikolai to change his clothing and would send spies to the market. With similarly naive precautions she returned to Yegor’s apartment, and then she had to accompany Nikolai to the outskirts of town. She and Nikolai walked on different sides of the street, and the mother found it funny, but nice, to see Vesovshchikov striding along heavily with his head down, catching his feet in the long skirts of his ginger-coloured coat and adjusting the hat that kept slipping down over his nose. They were met on a deserted street by Sashenka, and, bidding Vesovshchikov farewell with a nod of the head, the mother set off for home.

  “And Pasha’s inside… And Andryusha…” she thought sadly.

  X

  Nikolai greeted her with an anxious exclamation:

  “Do you know – Yegor’s in a very, very bad way! He’s been taken to hospital; Lyudmila was here, and she wants you to go to her there…

  “At the hospital?”

  Straightening his glasses with a nervous movement, Nikolai helped her to put on her cardigan and, squeezing her hand with his own thin, warm one, said in a quavering voice:

  “Yes! Take this parcel with you. Has Vesovshchikov been fixed up?”

  “Everything’s fine…”

  “I’ll come and see Yegor too…”

  The mother’s head was spinning with tiredness, but Nikolai’s anxious mood had aroused in her a melancholy presentiment of drama.

  “He’s dying,” was the dark thought that thudded dully in her head.

  But when she arrived in the small, clean, bright hospital room and saw that Yegor was sitting on his bed in a white heap of pillows, chuckling hoarsely, it immediately reassured her. Smiling, she stood in the doorway and listened to the patient telling the doctor:

  “Treatment is reform…”

  “Don’t play the fool, Yegor!” the concerned doctor exclaimed in a thin voice.

  “And I’m a revolutionary, I hate reforms…”

  The doctor placed Yegor’s hand carefully on his lap, got up from his chair and, plucking pensively at his beard, began fingering the oedemas on the patient’s face.

  The mother knew the doctor well, for he was one of Nikolai’s close comrades, and his name was Ivan Danilovich. She started towards Yegor, and he stuck his tongue out in her direction. The doctor turned around.

  “Ah, Nilovna! Hello! What’s that you’re holding?”

  “Books, I expect.”

  “He mustn’t read!” the little doctor remarked.

  “He wants to make me into an idiot!” Yegor complained.

  Short, heavy sighs and catarrhal wheezing were bursting out of Yegor’s chest, his face was covered in droplets of sweat and, lifting his heavy, uncooperative arms slowly, he would wipe his forehead with the palm of his hand. The strange immobility of his swollen cheeks disfigured his broad, kind face, all of its features had disappeared beneath a deathly mask, and only the eyes, sunk deep in the oedemas, looked out clearly, smiling a condescending smile.

  “Hey, science! I’m tired, can I lie down?” he asked.

  “No!” said the doctor tersely.

  “Well, I will when you leave…”

  “Don’t let him do that, Nilovna! Put the pillows straight. And please don’t talk with him: it’s bad for him…”

  The mother nodded her head. The doctor went away with quick little steps. Yegor threw back his head, closed his eyes and froze, with only his fingers stirring gently. Wafting from the little room’s white walls was a dry cold, a dull sadness. Into the large window looked the curly tops of lime trees, and there were patches of yellow shining brightly in their dark, dusty foliage, the cold touches of the coming autumn.

  “Death’s coming to me slowly… reluctantly…” Yegor began, without moving and without opening his eyes. “It’s evidently a little sorry for me – I was such an easy lad to get on with…”

  “You ought to keep quiet, Yegor Ivanovich!” the mother begged, quietly stroking his hand.

  “Just wait and I will be quiet…”

  Gasping for breath and uttering the words with an effort, he continued, interrupting his speech with pauses of powerlessness:

  “It’s excellent that you’re with us, it’s nice to see your face. ‘How will she end up?’ I ask myself. It’s sad when you think that prison and all sorts of swinishness await you, like everyone else. You’re not afraid of prison?”

  “No!” she replied simply.

  “Well, of course not. But prison is rotten, after all – it’s what crippled me. To be honest, I don’t want to die…”

  “Maybe you won’t just yet!” the mother wanted to say, but after glancing into his face,
she remained silent.

  “I could still work… But if work’s not possible, there’s nothing to live for and living’s stupid…”

  “True, but it’s no comfort!” The mother involuntarily recalled Andrei’s words and heaved a heavy sigh. She had grown very tired over the course of the day, and she was hungry. The sick man’s monotonous, chesty whisper filled the room and crept helplessly over the smooth walls. The tops of the limes outside the window were like low-hanging storm clouds, and their sorrowful blackness was astonishing. Everything was becoming strangely still in the immobility of twilight, in the doleful expectation of the night.

  “I’m in a bad way!” said Yegor and, closing his eyes, fell silent.

  “Go to sleep!” the mother advised. “Perhaps you’ll feel better.”

  Then she listened closely to his breathing, looked around, sat still for a few minutes, gripped by cold sadness, and dozed off.

  A cautious noise by the door woke her and, with a start, she saw Yegor’s open eyes.

  “Forgive me, I fell asleep!” she said quietly.

  “You forgive me too…” he repeated, quietly as well.

  The evening twilight looked in at the window, the dull cold lay heavy on the eyes, everything had become strangely dim, and the sick man’s face had turned dark.

  A rustling was heard and Lyudmila’s voice:

  “Sitting in the dark and whispering. Where’s the switch here?”

  Suddenly the room was completely flooded in white, unfriendly light. In its midst stood Lyudmila, all black, tall and erect.

  Yegor’s whole body gave a violent start, and he lifted a hand to his chest.

  “What is it?” cried Lyudmila, running up to him.

  He was looking at the mother with eyes that stood still, and now they seemed large and strangely bright.

  With his mouth wide open, he lifted his head up, and his arm reached forward. The mother carefully took his hand and, holding her breath, looked into Yegor’s face. With a spasmodic, violent movement of the neck he threw back his head and said loudly:

  “I can’t go on – it’s over!…”

  His body quivered gently, his head fell powerless onto his shoulder, and in his wide-open eyes was a deathly reflection of the cold light of the lamp that burned above the bed.