Andre Theuriet - "A Woodland Queen, v2"

Mrs. Charles J. Woodbury - "The Potato Child & Others"

Emile Zola - "The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 2"

H. Rider Haggard - "Nada the Lily"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Mother

M >> Maxim Gorky >> Mother




"All my life, I suppose, I won't be able to wash off that dirty
stain from it."

"If only your heart is pure, my dear boy!" the mother said softly,
bursting into tears.

"I don't regard myself as guilty; no, I don't!" said the Little
Russian firmly. "But it's disgust. It disgusts me to carry such
dirt inside of me. I had no need of it. It wasn't called for."

"What do you think of doing?" asked Pavel, giving him a suspicious look.

"What am I going to do?" the Little Russian repeated thoughtfully,
drooping his head. Then raising it again he said with a smile:
"I am not afraid, of course, to say that it was I who struck him.
But I am ashamed to say it. I am ashamed to go to prison, and even
to hard labor, maybe, for such a--nothing. If some one else is
accused, then I'll go and confess. But otherwise, go all of my own
accord--I cannot!"

He waved his hands, rose, and repeated:

"I cannot! I am ashamed!"

The whistle blew. The Little Russian, bending his head to one side,
listened to the powerful roar, and shaking himself, said:

"I am not going to work."

"Nor I," said Pavel.

"I'll go to the bath house," said the Little Russian, smiling. He
got ready in silence and walked off, sullen and low-spirited.

The mother followed him with a compassionate look.

"Say what you please, Pasha, I cannot believe him! And even if I
did believe him, I wouldn't lay any blame on him. No, I would not.
I know it's sinful to kill a man; I believe in God and in the Lord
Jesus Christ, but still I don't think Andrey guilty. I'm sorry for
Isay. He's such a tiny bit of a manikin. He lies there in astonishment.
When I looked at him I remembered how he threatened to have you
hanged. And yet I neither felt hatred toward him nor joy because
he was dead. I simply felt sorry. But now that I know by whose
hand he fell I am not even sorry for him."

She suddenly became silent, reflected a while, and with a smile of
surprise, exclaimed:

"Lord Jesus Christ! Do you hear what I am saying, Pasha?"

Pavel apparently had not heard her. Slowly pacing up and down the
room with drooping head, he said pensively and with exasperation:

"Andrey won't forgive himself soon, if he'll forgive himself at all!
There is life for you, mother. You see the position in which people
are placed toward one another. You don't want to, but you must
strike! And strike whom? Such a helpless being. He is more
wretched even than you because he is stupid. The police, the
gendarmes, the soldiers, the spies--they are all our enemies, and
yet they are all such people as we are. Their blood is sucked out
of them just as ours is, and they are no more regarded as human
beings than we are. That's the way it is. But they have set one
part of the people against the other, blinded them with fear, bound
them all hand and foot, squeezed them, and drained their blood, and
used some as clubs against the others. They've turned men into
weapons, into sticks and stones, and called it civilization, government."

He walked up to his mother and said to her firmly:

"That's crime, mother! The heinous crime of killing millions of
people, the murder of millions of souls! You understand--they kill
the soul! You see the difference between them and us. He killed a
man unwittingly. He feels disgusted, ashamed, sick--the main thing
is he feels disgusted! But they kill off thousands calmly, without
a qualm, without pity, without a shudder of the heart. They kill
with pleasure and with delight. And why? They stifle everybody and
everything to death merely to keep the timber of their houses
secure, their furniture, their silver, their gold, their worthless
papers--all that cheap trash which gives them control over the
people. Think, it's not for their own selves, for their persons,
that they protect themselves thus, using murder and the mutilation
of souls as a means--it's not for themselves they do it, but for the
sake of their possessions. They do not guard themselves from
within, but from without."

He bent over to her, took her hands, and shaking them said:

"If you felt the abomination of it all, the disgrace and rottenness,
you would understand our truth; you would then perceive how great it
is, how glorious!"

The mother arose agitated, full of a desire to sink her heart into
the heart of her son, and to join them in one burning, flaming torch.

"Wait, Pasha, wait!" she muttered, panting for breath. "I am a
human being. I feel. Wait."

There was a loud noise of some one entering the porch. Both of them
started and looked at each other.

"If it's the police coming for Andrey--" Pavel whispered.

"I know nothing--nothing!" the mother whispered back. "Oh, God!"



CHAPTER XVII


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, and I have no desire to defend the peasants wholesale."

Rybin rose to his feet somber and powerful. His face darkened, his
beard quivered as if he ground his teeth inaudibly, and he continued
in a lowered voice:

"For five years I beat about from factory to factory, and got
unaccustomed to the village. Then I went to the village again,
looked around, and I found I could not live like that any more!
You understand? I CAN'T. You live here, you don't know hunger,
you don't see such outrages. There hunger stalks after a man all
his life like a shadow, and he has no hope for bread--no hope!
Hunger destroys the soul of the people; the very image of man is
effaced from their countenances. They do not live, they rot in
dire unavoidable want. And around them the government authorities
watch like ravens to see if a crumb is not left over. And if they
do find a crumb, they snatch that away, too, and give you a punch
in the face besides."

Rybin looked around, bent down to Pavel, his hand resting on the table:

"I even got sick and faint when I saw that life again. I looked
around me--but I couldn't! However, I conquered my repulsion.
'Fiddlesticks!' I said. 'I won't let my feelings get the better of
me. I'll stay here. I won't get your bread for you; but I'll cook
you a pretty mess, I will.' I carry within me the wrongs of my
people and hatred of the oppressor. I feel these wrongs like a
knife constantly cutting at my heart."

Perspiration broke out on his forehead; he shrugged his shoulders and
slowly bent toward Pavel, laying a tremulous hand on his shoulder:

"Give me your help! Let me have books--such books that when a man
has read them he will not be able to rest. Put a prickly hedgehog
to his brains. Tell those city folks who write for you to write for
the villagers also. Let them write such hot truth that it will
scald the village, that the people will even rush to their death."

He raised his hand, and laying emphasis on each word, he said hoarsely:

"Let death make amends for death. That is, die so that the people
should arise to life again. And let thousands die in order that
hosts of people all over the earth may arise to life again. That's
it! It's easy to die--but let the people rise to life again!
That's a different thing! Let them rise up in rebellion!"

The mother brought in the samovar, looking askance at Rybin. His
strong, heavy words oppressed her. Something in him reminded her
of her husband. He, too, showed his teeth, waved his hands, and
rolled up his sleeves; in him, too, there was that impatient wrath,
impatient but dumb. Rybin was not dumb; he was not silent; he
spoke, and therefore was less terrible.

"That's necessary," said Pavel, nodding his head. "We need a
newspaper for the villages, too. Give us material, and we'll
print you a newspaper."

The mother looked at her son with a smile, and shook her head.
She had quietly put on her wraps and now went out of the house.

"Yes, do it. We'll give you everything. Write as simply as
possible, so that even calves could understand," Rybin cried. Then,
suddenly stepping back from Pavel, he said, as he shook his head:

"Ah, me, if I were a Jew! The Jew, my dear boy, is the most
believing man in the world! Isaiah, the prophet, or Job, the
patient, believed more strongly than Christ's apostles. They could
say words to make a man's hair stand on end. But the apostles, you
see, Pavel, couldn't. The prophets believed not in the church, but
in themselves; they had their God in themselves. The apostles--they
built churches; and the church is law. Man must believe in himself,
not in law. Man carries the truth of God in his soul; he is not a
police captain on earth, nor a slave! All the laws are in myself."

The kitchen door opened, and somebody walked in.

"It's Yefim," said Rybin, looking into the kitchen. "Come here,
Yefim. As for you, Pavel, think! Think a whole lot. There is a
great deal to think about. This is Yefim. And this man's name is
Pavel. I told you about him."

A light-haired, broad-faced young fellow in a short fur overcoat,
well built and evidently strong, stood before Pavel, holding his cap
in both hands and looking at him from the corners of his gray eyes.

"How do you do?" he said hoarsely, as he shook hands with Pavel,
and stroked his curly hair with both hands. He looked around the
room, immediately spied the bookshelf, and walked over to it slowly.

"Went straight to them!" Rybin said, winking to Pavel.

Yefim started to examine the books, and said:

"A whole lot of reading here! But I suppose you haven't much time
for it. Down in the village they have more time for reading."

"But less desire?" Pavel asked.

"Why? They have the desire, too," answered the fellow, rubbing his
chin. "The times are so now that if you don't think, you might as
well lie down and die. But the people don't want to die; and so
they've begun to make their brains work. 'Geology'--what's that?"

Pavel explained.

"We don't need it!" Yefim said, replacing the book on the shelf.

Rybin sighed noisily, and said:

"The peasant is not so much interested to know where the land came
from as where it's gone to, how it's been snatched from underneath
his feet by the gentry. It doesn't matter to him whether it's fixed
or whether it revolves--that's of no importance--you can hang it on
a rope, if you want to, provided it feeds him; you can nail it to
the skies, provided it gives him enough to eat."

"'The History of Slavery,'" Yefim read out again, and asked Pavel:
"Is it about us?"

"Here's an account of Russian serfdom, too," said Pavel, giving him
another book. Yefim took it, turned it in his hands, and putting
it aside, said calmly:

"That's out of date."

"Have you an apportionment of land for yourself?" inquired Pavel.

"We? Yes, we have. We are three brothers, and our portion is about
ten acres and a half--all sand--good for polishing brass, but poor
for making bread." After a pause he continued: "I've freed myself
from the soil. What's the use? It does not feed; it ties one's
hands. This is the fourth year that I'm working as a hired man.
I've got to become a soldier this fall. Uncle Mikhail says: 'Don't
go. Now,' he says, 'the soldiers are being sent to beat the people.'
However, I think I'll go. The army existed at the time of Stepan
Timofeyevich Razin and Pugachev. The time has come to make an end
of it. Don't you think so?" he asked, looking firmly at Pavel.

"Yes, the tine has come." The answer was accompanied by a smile. "But
it's hard. You must know what to say to soldiers, and how to say it."

"We'll learn; we'll know how," Yefim said.

"And if the superiors catch you at it, they may shoot you down,"
Pavel concluded, looking curiously at Yefim.

"They will show no mercy," the peasant assented calmly, and resumed
his examination of the books.

"Drink your tea, Yefim; we've got to leave soon," said Rybin.

"Directly." And Yefim asked again: "Revolution is an uprising,
isn't it?"

Andrey came, red, perspiring, and dejected. He shook Yefim's hand
without saying anything, sat down by Rybin's side, and smiled as he
looked at him.

"What's the trouble? Why so blue?" Rybin asked, tapping his knee.

"Nothing."

"Are you a workingman, too?" asked Yefim, nodding his head toward
the Little Russian.

"Yes," Andrey answered. "Why?"

"This is the first time he's seen factory workmen," explained Rybin.
"He says they're different from others."

"How so?" Pavel asked.

Yefim looked carefully at Andrey and said:

"You have sharp bones; peasants' bones are rounder."

"The peasant stands more firmly on his feet," Rybin supplemented.
"He feels the ground under him although he does not possess it.
Yet he feels the earth. But the factory workingman is something
like a bird. He has no home. To-day he's here, to-morrow there.
Even his wife can't attach him to the same spot. At the least
provocation--farewell, my dear! and off he goes to look for something
better. But the peasant wants to improve himself just where he is
without moving off the spot. There's your mother!" And Rybin went
out into the kitchen.

Yefim approached Pavel, and with embarrassment asked:

"Perhaps you will give me a book?"

"Certainly."

The peasant's eyes flashed, and he said rapidly:

"I'll return it. Some of our folks bring tar not far from here.
They will return it for me. Thank you! Nowadays a book is like
a candle in the night to us."

Rybin, already dressed and tightly girt, came in and said to Yefim:

"Come, it's time for us to go."

"Now, I have something to read!" exclaimed Yefim, pointing to the
book and smiling inwardly. When he had gone, Pavel animatedly said,
turning to Andrey:

"Did you notice those fellows?"

"Y-yes!" slowly uttered the Little Russian. "Like clouds in the
sunset--thick, dark clouds, moving slowly."

"Mikhail!" exclaimed the mother. "He looks as if he had never been
in a factory! A peasant again. And how formidable he looks!"

"I'm sorry you weren't here," said Pavel to Andrey, who was sitting
at the table, staring gloomily into his glass of tea. "You could
have seen the play of hearts. You always talk about the heart.
Rybin got up a lot of steam; he upset me, crushed me. I couldn't
even reply to him. How distrustful he is of people, and how cheaply
he values them! Mother is right. That man has a formidable power
in him."

"I noticed it," the Little Russian replied glumly. "They have
poisoned people. When the peasants rise up, they'll overturn
absolutely everything! They need bare land, and they will lay it
bare, tear down everything." He spoke slowly, and it was evident
that his mind was on something else. The mother cautiously tapped
him on the shoulder.

"Pull yourself together, Andriusha."

"Wait a little, my dear mother, my own!" he begged softly and
kindly. "All this is so ugly--although I didn't mean to do any
harm. Wait!" And suddenly rousing himself, he said, striking
the table with his hand: "Yes, Pavel, the peasant will lay the
land bare for himself when he rises to his feet. He will burn
everything up, as if after a plague, so that all traces of his
wrongs will vanish in ashes."

"And then he will get in our way," Pavel observed softly.

"It's our business to prevent that. We are nearer to him; he trusts
us; he will follow us."

"Do you know, Rybin proposes that we should publish a newspaper
for the village?"

"We must do it, too. As soon as possible."

Pavel laughed and said:

"I feel bad I didn't argue with him."

"We'll have a chance to argue with him still," the Little Russian
rejoined. "You keep on playing your flute; whoever has gay feet,
if they haven't grown into the ground, will dance to your tune.
Rybin would probably have said that we don't feel the ground under
us, and need not, either. Therefore it's our business to shake it.
Shake it once, and the people will be loosened from it; shake it once
more, and they'll tear themselves away."

The mother smiled.

"Everything seems to be simple to you, Andriusha."

"Yes, yes, it's simple," said the Little Russian, and added gloomily:
"Like life." A few minutes later he said: "I'll go take a walk in
the field."

"After the bath? The wind will blow through you," the mother warned.

"Well, I need a good airing."

"Look out, you'll catch a cold," Pavel said affectionately. "You'd
better lie down and try to sleep."

"No, I'm going." He put on his wraps, and went out without speaking.

"It's hard for him," the mother sighed.

"You know what?" Pavel observed to her. "It's very good that you
started to say 'thou' to him after that."

She looked at him in astonishment, and after reflecting a moment, said:

"Um, I didn't even notice how it came. It came all of itself. He
has grown so near to me. I can't tell you in words just how I feel.
Oh, such a misfortune!"

"You have a good heart, mamma," Pavel said softly.

"I'm very glad if I have. If I could only help you in some way,
all of you. If I only could!"

"Don't fear, you will."

She laughed softly:

"I can't help fearing; that's exactly what I can't help. But thank
you for the good word, my dear son."