The Mother

by Pearl S. Buck

  She wondered even then for she had seen this man start for the town that morning when she rose at dawn, since she could not lie abed easily if she were well, being used to dawn rising all her life, and she saw him start to town with loads of new-cut grass. Here he was back so soon, and she was about to call out and ask him if he had sold his grass so quick when she saw her elder son look up from the thong and cry aghast, “My brother?”

  Yes, the old mother’s sharp ears heard it, for she was not deaf at all and she called out quickly, “What of my little son?”

  But the two men talked on earnestly and very gravely and with anxious looks into each other’s faces and at last the mother could not bear it and she rose and hobbled to them and she struck her staff upon the beaten earth and cried out, “Tell me of my son!”

  But the cousin’s son went away without a word and the elder son said, halting, “Mother, there is something wrong. I do not know—but, mother, I must go to town and see and tell you then—”

  But the mother would not let him go. She laid hold on him and cried out the more, “You shall not go until you tell me!”

  And at the sound of such a voice the son’s wife came and stood and listened and said, “Tell her, else she will be ill with anger.”

  So the son said slowly, “My cousin said—he said he saw my brother this morning among many others, and his hands were tied behind him with hempen ropes and his clothes were rags and he was marching past the market-place where my cousin had taken the grass to sell, and there was a long line of some twenty or thirty, and when my brother saw him he turned his eyes away—but my cousin asked and the guards who walked along said they were communists sent to gaol to be killed tomorrow.”

  Then did the three stare at each other, and as they stared the old mother’s jaw began to tremble and she looked from this face to the other and said, “I have heard that word, but I do not know what it is.”

  And the son said slowly, “So I asked my cousin and he asked the guard and the guard laughed and he said it was a new sort of robber they had nowadays.”

  Then the mother thought of that bundle hid so long beneath her bed and she began to wail aloud and threw her coat over her head and sobbed and said, “I might have known that night—oh, that bundle underneath my bed is what he robbed!”

  But the son and son’s wife laid hold on her at this and looked about and hurried her between them into the house and said, “What do you mean, our mother?”

  And the son’s wife lifted up the curtain and looked at the man and he came and the old mother pointed to the bundle there and sobbed, “I do not know what is in it—but he brought it here one night—and bade me be secret for a day or two—and still he is not come—and never came—”

  Then the man rose and went and shut the door softly and barred it and the woman hung a garment over the window and together they drew that bundle forth and untied the ropes.

  “Sheepskins, he said it was,” the mother murmured, staring at it.

  But the two said nothing and believed nothing that she said. It might be anything and half they expected it was gold when they felt how heavy and how hard it was.

  But when they opened it, it was only books. Many, many books were there, all small and blackly printed, and many sheets of paper, some pictured with the strangest sights of blood and death and giants beating little men or hewing them with knives. And when they saw these books, the three gaped at each other, all at a loss to know what this could mean and why any man should steal and hide mere paper marked with ink.

  But however much they stared they could not know the meaning. None could read a word, nor scarcely know the meaning of the pictures except that they were of bloody things, men stabbed and dying, and men severed in pieces and all such bloody hateful things as happen only where robbers are.

  Then were the three in terror, the mother for her son and the other two for themselves lest any should know that these were there. The man said, “Tie them up again and let them be till night and then we will take them to the kitchen and burn them all.”

  But the woman was more careful and she said, “No, we cannot burn them all at once or else others will see the mighty smoke and wonder what we do. I must burn them bit by bit and day by day as though I burned the grass to cook our food.”

  But the old mother did not heed this. She only knew now that her son had fallen in evil hands and she said to her elder son, “Oh, son, what will you do for your little brother—how will you find him?”

  “I know where he is,” the man said slowly and unwillingly. “My cousin said they took them to a certain gaol near the south gate where the beheading ground is.”

  And then he cried out at his mother’s sudden ghastly look and he called to his wife and they lifted the old woman and laid her on the bed and there she lay and gasped, her face the hue of clay with terror for her son, and she whispered gasping, “Oh, son, will you not go—your brother—”

  And the elder son laid aside his fears for himself then slowly and he said, in pity for his mother, “Oh, aye, mother, I go—I go—”

  He changed his clothes then and put shoes on his feet and to the mother the time went so slow she could not bear it. When at last he was ready she called him to her and pulled his head down and whispered in his ear, “Son, do not spare money. If he be truly in the gaol, there must be money spent to get him out. But money can do it, son. Whoever heard of any gaol that would not let a man free for money? Son, I have a little—in a hole here—I only kept it for him—use it all—use all we have—”

  The man’s face did not change and he looked at his wife and she looked at him and he said, “I will spare all I can, my mother, for your sake.”

  But she cried, “What does it matter for me?—I am old and ready to die. It is for his sake.”

  But the man was gone, and he went to fetch his cousin who had seen the sight and the two went toward the town.

  What could the mother do then except to wait again? Yet this was the bitterest waiting of her life. She could not lie upon her bed and yet she was faint if she rose. At last the son’s wife grew frightened to see how the old woman looked and how she stared and muttered and clapped her hands against her lean thighs and so she went and fetched the old cousin and the cousin’s wife, and the pair came over soberly and the three old people sat together.

  It was true it did comfort the mother somewhat to have the others there, for these were the two she could speak most to and she wept and said again and again, “If I have sinned have I not had sorrow enough?” And she said, “If I have sinned why do I not die myself and let it be an end of it? Why should this one and that be taken from me, and doubtless my grandson, too? No, I shall never see my grandson. I know I never shall, and it will not be I who must die.” And then she grew angry at such sorrow and cried out in her anger, weeping as she cried, “But where is any perfect woman and who is without any sin, and why should I have all the sorrow?”

  Then the cousin’s wife said hastily, for she feared that this old mother might cry out too much in her pain, “Be sure we all have sins and if we must be judged by sins then none of us would have children. Look at my sons and grandsons, and yet I am a wicked old soul, too, and I never go near a temple and I never have and when a nun used to come and cry out that I should learn the way to heaven, why then I was too busy with the babes, and now when I am old and they come and tell me I must learn the way before it is too late, why then I say I am too old to learn anything now and must do without a heaven if they will not have me as I am.”

  So she comforted the distraught mother, and the cousin said in his turn, “Wait, good cousin, until we hear what the news is. It may be you need not grieve after all, for he may be set free with the money they have to free him with, or it may be my son saw wrong and it was not your son who went past bound.”

  But the cousin’s wife took this care. She bade the young wife go and see to something or other in her own house, for she would have this son’s wife out of earshot, lest this
poor old woman tell more than she meant to tell in this hour, and a great pity after keeping silence so many years.

  So they waited for the two men to return and it was easier waiting three than one.

  But night drew on before the mother saw them coming. She had dragged herself from her bed and as the afternoon wore on she went and sat under the willow tree, her cousin and her cousin’s wife beside her, and there the old three sat staring down the hamlet street, except when the cousin’s wife slept her little sleeps that not even sorrow could keep from her.

  At last when the sun was nearly set the mother saw them coming. She rose and leaned upon her staff and shaded her eyes against the golden evening sun and she cried, “It is they!” and hobbled down the street. So loud had been her cry, so fast her footsteps, that everyone came out of his house, for in the hamlet they all knew the tale but did not dare to come openly to the mother’s house, for fear there might be some judgment come on it because of this younger son and they all be caught in it. All day then they had gone about their business, eaten through with curiosity, but fearful too, as country people are when gaols and governors are talked of. Now they came forth and hung about, but at a distance, and watched what might befall. The cousin rose too and went behind the mother, and even the cousin’s wife would fain have come except now she did not walk unless she must and she thought to herself that she would hear it but a little later and she was one who believed the best must happen after all and so she spared herself and sat upon her bench and waited.

  But the mother ran and laid hold on her son’s arm and cried out, “What of my little son?”

  But even as she asked the question, even as her old eyes searched the faces of the two men, she knew that ill was written there. The two men looked at each other and at last the son said soberly, “He is in gaol, mother.” The two men looked at each other again and the cousin’s son scratched his head for a while and looked away and seemed foolish and as though he did not know what to say, and so the son spoke again, “Mother, I doubt he can be saved. He and twenty more are set for death and in the morning.”

  “Death?” the mother shrieked, and again she shrieked, “Death!”

  And she would have fallen if they had not caught her.

  Then the two men led her in to the nearest house and put a seat beneath her and eased her down and she began to weep and cry as a child does, her old mouth quivering and her tears running down and she beat her dried breasts with her clenched hands and cried out, accusing her son, “Then you did not offer them enough money—I told you I had that little store—not so little either, forty pieces of silver and the two little pieces he gave me last—and there they are waiting!” And when she saw her son stand with hanging head and the sweat bursting out on his lip and brow she spat at him in her anger and she said, “You shall not have a penny of it either! If he dies it will not be for you. No, I will go and throw it in the river first.”

  Then the cousin’s son spoke up in defense and for the sake of peace and he said, his face wrinkling in such a distressful hour and cause, “No, aunt, do not blame him. He offered more than twice your store. He offered a hundred pieces for his brother, and to high and low in that gaol, as high as he could get he offered bribes. To this one and to that he showed silver, but they would not even let him see your little son.”

  “Then he did not offer enough,” the mother shouted. “Whoever heard of guards in a gaol who are not to be bribed? But I will go and fetch that money this moment. Yes, I will dig it up and take it, old as I am, and find my little son and bring him home and he shall never leave me more, whatever they may say.”

  Again the two men looked at each other and the son’s face begged his cousin to speak again for him and so the cousin’s son said again, “Good aunt, they will not even let you see him. They would not let us in at all, I say; no, although we showed silver, because they said the governor was hot now against such crime as his. It is some new crime nowadays, and very heinous.”

  “My son has never done a crime,” the mother cried proudly, and she lifted up her staff and shook it at the man. “There is an enemy somewhere here who pays more than we have to keep him in the gaol.” And she looked around about the crowd that stood there gaping now and drinking down the news they heard, their eyes staring and their jaws agape, and she cried at them, “Saw any of you any crime my little son ever did?”

  This one looked at that and each looked everywhere and said no word and the mother saw their dubious looks and somehow her heart broke. She fell into her weeping again and cried at them, “Oh, you hated him because he was so fair to look upon—better than your black sons, who are only hinds—aye, you hate anyone who is better than yourselves—” and she rose and staggered forth and went home weeping most bitterly.

  But when she was come home again and they were alone and none near except the cousin and the cousin’s wife and their children, the mother wiped her eyes and said to her elder son more quietly yet in a fever, too, “But this is letting good time pass. Tell me all, for we may save him yet. We have the night. What was his true crime? We will take all we have and save him yet.”

  There passed between the son and son’s wife a look at this, not evil, but as though forbearance were very near its end in them, and then the son began, “I do not know what the crime is rightly, but they call him what I told you, a communist. A new word—I have heard it often, and when I asked what it was it seemed to be a sort of robber band. I asked the guard there at the gaol, who stands with a gun across his arm, and he answered, ‘What is he? Why, one who would even take your land from you, goodman, for himself, and one who contrives against the state and so must die with all his fellows.’ Aye, that is his crime.”

  The mother listened hard to this, the candle’s light falling on her face that glistened with dried tears, and she said astounded, her voice trembling while she strove to make it firm, “But I do not think it can be so. I never heard him say a word like this. I never heard of such a crime. To kill a man, to rob a house, to let a parent starve, these be crimes. But how can land be robbed? Can he roll it up like cloth and take it away with him and hide it somewhere?”

  “I do not know, mother,” said the son, his head hanging, his hands hanging loose between his knees as he sat upon a little stool. He wore his one robe still, but he had tucked the edge into his girdle, for he was not used to robes, and now he put it in more firmly and then he said slowly, “I do not know what else was said, a great deal here and there in the town we heard, because so many are to be killed tomorrow and they make a holiday. What else was said, my cousin?”

  Then the cousin’s son scratched his chin and swallowed hard and stared at the faces round about him in the room and he said, “There was a great deal said by those town folk, but I dared not ask much for when I asked more closely what the bother was about the guards at the gaol turned on me and said, ‘Are you one of them, too? What is it then to you if they are killed?’ And I dared not say I was the cousin of one to be killed. But we did find a chief gaoler and we gave him some money and begged for a private place to speak in and he led us to a corner of the gaol behind his own house and we told him we were honest country folk and had a little poor land and rented more, and that there was one among the doomed to die who was a distant relative, and if we could save him then we would for honor’s sake, since none of our name had died under a headsman’s blade before. But only if it did not cost too much since we were poor. The gaoler took the silver then and asked how the lad looked and we told him and he said, ‘I think I know the lad you mean, for he has been very ill at ease in gaol, and I think he would say all he knows, except there is a maid beside him bold as any I have ever seen who keeps him brave. Yes, some are hard and bold and do not care however they may die or when they die. But that lad is afraid. I doubt he knows what he has done or why he dies, for he looks a simple country lad they have used for their bidding and made great promises to him. I believe his crime is that he was found with certain books upon him that
he gave among the people freely, and in the books are evil things said of overturning all the state and sharing all the money and the land alike.’ ”

  Then the mother looked at her elder son and broke out in fresh weeping and she moaned, “I knew we ought to let him have some land. We might have rented a little more and given him a share—but no, this elder son of mine and his wife must hold it all and grudge him everything—”

  Then the elder son opened his mouth to speak, but the old cousin said quietly, “Do not speak, my son. Let your mother blame you and ease herself. We all know what you are and what your brother was and how ill he hated any labor on the land or any labor anywhere.”

  So the son held his peace. At last the cousin’s son said on, “We asked the gaoler then how much silver it would take to set the lad free, and the gaoler shook his head and said that if the lad were high of place and son of some great rich and mighty man then doubtless silver used could set him free. But being a country lad and poor no man would put his life in danger for all that we could give, and so doubtless he must die.”

  At this the mother shrieked, “And shall he die because he is my son and I am poor? We have that land we own and we will sell it to free him. Yes, we will sell it this very night,—there are those in this hamlet—”

  But the elder son spoke up at this talk of his land and he said, “And how then will we live? We can scarcely live even as it is and if we rent more and at these new and ruinous rates we have now we shall be beggars. All we own is this small parcel of land and I will not sell it, mother. No, the land is mine—I will not sell it.”

  And when he said this his wife spoke up, to say the only thing she had said all the time, for she had sat there quietly listening, her pale face grave and showing nothing and she said, “There is the son I have in me to think of now.” And the man said heavily, “Aye, it is he I think of.” Then was the old mother silent. Yes, she was silent and she wept a while and thereafter all that night whenever fresh words broke forth there was but this one answer to them all.