H. W. C. Davis - "Medieval Europe"

Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc) - "Jacqueline, v1"

Charles Godfrey Leland - "The Algonquin Legends of New England"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1572"

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




"We march to join our suffering mates."

The song flowed on, embracing the people.

Some one's face, alarmed yet joyous, moved along beside the
mother's, and a trembling voice spoke, sobbing:

"Mitya! Where are you going?"

The mother interfered without stopping:

"Let him go! Don't be alarmed! Don't fear! I myself was afraid
at first, too. Mine is right at the head--he who bears the standard
--that's my son!"

"Murderers! Where are you going? There are soldiers over there!"
And suddenly clasping the mother's hand in her bony hands, the tall,
thin woman exclaimed: "My dear! How they sing! Oh, the sectarians!
And Mitya is singing!"

"Don't be troubled!" murmured the mother. "It's a sacred thing.
Think of it! Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn't
perished for his sake."

This thought had flashed across the mother's mind all of a sudden
and struck her by its simple, clear truth. She stared at the woman,
who held her hand firmly in her clasp, and repeated, smiling:

"Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn't suffered for his
sake."

Sizov appeared at her side. He took off his hat and waving it to
the measure of the song, said:

"They're marching openly, eh, mother? And composed a song, too!
What a song, mother, eh?"

"The Czar for the army soldiers must have,
Then give him your sons----"

"They're not afraid of anything," said Sizov. "And my son is in the
grave. The factory crushed him to death, yes!"

The mother's heart beat rapidly, and she began to lag behind. She
was soon pushed aside hard against a fence, and the close-packed
crowd went streaming past her. She saw that there were many people,
and she was pleased.

"Rise up, awake, you workingmen!"

It seemed as if the blare of a mighty brass trumpet were rousing
men and stirring in some hearts the willingness to fight, in other
hearts a vague joy, a premonition of something new, and a burning
curiosity; in still others a confused tremor of hope and curiosity.
The song was an outlet, too, for the stinging bitterness accumulated
during years.

The people looked ahead, where the red banner was swinging and
streaming in the air. All were saying something and shouting; but
the individual voice was lost in the song--the new song, in which
the old note of mournful meditation was absent. It was not the
utterance of a soul wandering in solitude along the dark paths of
melancholy perplexity, of a soul beaten down by want, burdened with
fear, deprived of individuality, and colorless. It breathed no
sighs of a strength hungering for space; it shouted no provoking
cries of irritated courage ready to crush both the good and the bad
indiscriminately. It did not voice the elemental instinct of the
animal to snatch freedom for freedom's sake, nor the feeling of
wrong or vengeance capable of destroying everything and powerless
to build up anything. In this song there was nothing from the old,
slavish world. It floated along directly, evenly; it proclaimed an
iron virility, a calm threat. Simple, clear, it swept the people
after it along an endless path leading to the far distant future;
and it spoke frankly about the hardships of the way. In its steady
fire a heavy clod seemed to burn and melt--the sufferings they had
endured, the dark load of their habitual feelings, their cursed
dread of what was coming.

"They all join in!" somebody roared exultantly. "Well done, boys!"

Apparently the man felt something vast, to which he could not give
expression in ordinary words, so he uttered a stiff oath. Yet the
malice, the blind dark malice of a slave also streamed hotly through
his teeth. Disturbed by the light shed upon it, it hissed like a
snake, writhing in venomous words.

"Heretics!" a man with a broken voice shouted from a window, shaking
his fist threateningly.

A piercing scream importunately bored into the mother's ears--
"Rioting against the emperor, against his Majesty the Czar? No, no?"

Agitated people flashed quickly past her, a dark lava stream of men
and women, carried along by this song, which cleared every obstacle
out of its path.

Growing in the mother's breast was the mighty desire to shout to the
crowd:

"Oh, my dear people!"

There, far away from her, was the red banner--she saw her son without
seeing him--his bronzed forehead, his eyes burning with the bright
fire of faith. Now she was in the tail of the crowd among the people
who walked without hurrying, indifferent, looking ahead with the cold
curiosity of spectators who know beforehand how the show will end.
They spoke softly with confidence.

"One company of infantry is near the school, and the other near
the factory."

"The governor has come."

"Is that so?"

"I saw him myself. He's here."

Some one swore jovially and said:

"They've begun to fear our fellows, after all, haven't they? The
soldiers have come and the governor----"

"Dear boys!" throbbed in the breast of the mother. But the words
around her sounded dead and cold. She hastened her steps to get
away from these people, and it was not difficult for her to outstrip
their lurching gait.

Suddenly the head of the crowd, as it were, bumped against something;
its body swung backward with an alarming, low hum. The song trembled,
then flowed on more rapidly and louder; but again the dense wave of
sounds hesitated in its forward course. Voices fell out of the chorus
one after the other. Here and there a voice was raised in the effort
to bring the song to its previous height, to push it forward:

"Rise up, awake, you workingmen!
On, on, to war, you hungry hosts!"

Though she saw nothing and was ignorant of what was happening
there in front, the mother divined, and elbowed her way rapidly
through the crowd.



CHAPTER XX


"Comrades!" the voice of Pavel was heard. "Soldiers are people the
same as ourselves. They will not strike us! Why should they beat
us? Because we bear the truth necessary for all? This our truth is
necessary to them, too. Just now they do not understand this; but
the time is nearing when they will rise with us, when they will
march, not under the banner of robbers and murderers, the banner
which the liars and beasts order them to call the banner of glory
and honor, but under our banner of freedom and goodness! We ought
to go forward so that they should understand our truth the sooner.
Forward, comrades! Ever forward!"

Pavel's voice sounded firm, the words rang in the air distinctly.
But the crowd fell asunder; one after the other the people dropped
off to the right or to the left, going toward their homes, or
leaning against the fences. Now the crowd had the shape of a wedge,
and its point was Pavel, over whose head the banner of the laboring
people was burning red.

At the end of the street, closing the exit to the square, the mother
saw a low, gray wall of men, one just like the other, without faces.
On the shoulder of each a bayonet was smiling its thin, chill smile;
and from this entire immobile wall a cold gust blew down on the
workmen, striking the breast of the mother and penetrating her heart.

She forced her way into the crowd among people familiar to her, and,
as it were, leaned on them.

She pressed closely against a tall, lame man with a clean-shaven
face. In order to look at her, he had to turn his head stiffly.

"What do you want? Who are you?" he asked her.

"The mother of Pavel Vlasov," she answered, her knees trembling
beneath her, her lower lip involuntarily dropping.

"Ha-ha!" said the lame man. "Very well!"

"Comrades!" Pavel cried. "Onward all your lives. There is no
other way for us! Sing!"

The atmosphere grew tense. The flag rose and rocked and waved over
the heads of the people, gliding toward the gray wall of soldiers.
The mother trembled. She closed her eyes; and cried: "Oh--oh!"

None but Pavel, Andrey, Samoylov, and Mazin advanced beyond the crowd.

The limpid voice of Fedya Mazin slowly quivered in the air.

"'In mortal strife--'" he began the song.

"'You victims fell--'" answered thick, subdued voices. The words
dropped in two heavy sighs. People stepped forward, each footfall
audible. A new song, determined and resolute, burst out:

"You yielded up your lives for them."

Fedya's voice wreathed and curled like a bright ribbon.

"A-ha-ha-ha!" some one exclaimed derisively. "They've struck up a
funeral song, the dirty dogs!"

"Beat him!" came the angry response.

The mother clasped her hands to her breast, looked about and saw
that the crowd, before so dense, was now standing irresolute,
watching the comrades walk away from them with the banner, followed
by about a dozen people, one of whom, however, at every forward
move, jumped aside as if the path in the middle of the street were
red hot and burned his soles.

"The tyranny will fall--" sounded the prophetic song from the
lips of Fedya.

"And the people will rise!" the chorus of powerful voices seconded
confidently and menacingly.

But the harmonious flow of the song was broken by the quiet words:

"He is giving orders."

"Charge bayonets!" came the piercing order from the front.

The bayonets curved in the air, and glittered sharply; then fell
and stretched out to confront the banner.

"Ma-arch!"

"They're coming!" said the lame man, and thrusting his hands into
his pockets made a long step to one side.

The mother, without blinking, looked on. The gray line of soldiers
tossed to and fro, and spread out over the entire width of the
street. It moved on evenly, coolly, carrying in front of itself a
fine-toothed comb of sparkling bayonets. Then it came to a stand.
The mother took long steps to get nearer to her son. She saw how
Andrey strode ahead of Pavel and fenced him off with his long body.
"Get alongside of me!" Pavel shouted sharply. Andrey was singing,
his hands clasped behind his back, his head uplifted. Pavel pushed
him with his shoulder, and again cried:

"At my side! Let the banner be in front!"

"Disperse!" called a little officer in a thin voice, brandishing
a white saber. He lifted his feet high, and without bending his
knees struck his soles on the ground irritably. The high polish
on his boots caught the eyes of the mother.

To one side and somewhat behind him walked a tall, clean-shaven man,
with a thick, gray mustache. He wore a long gray overcoat with a
red underlining, and yellow stripes on his trousers. His gait was
heavy, and like the Little Russian, he clasped his hands behind his
back. He regarded Pavel, raising his thick gray eyebrows.

The mother seemed to be looking into infinity. At each breath her
breast was ready to burst with a loud cry. It choked her, but for
some reason she restrained it. Her hands clutched at her bosom.
She staggered from repeated thrusts. She walked onward without
thought, almost without consciousness. She felt that behind her
the crowd was getting thinner; a cold wind had blown on them and
scattered them like autumn leaves.

The men around the red banner moved closer and closer together.
The faces of the soldiers were clearly seen across the entire width
of the street, monstrously flattened, stretched out in a dirty
yellowish band. In it were unevenly set variously colored eyes,
and in front the sharp bayonets glittered crudely. Directed against
the breasts of the people, although not yet touching them, they
drove them apart, pushing one man after the other away from the
crowd and breaking it up.

Behind her the mother heard the trampling noise of those who were
running away. Suppressed, excited voices cried:

"Disperse, boys!"

"Vlasov, run!"

"Back, Pavel!"

"Drop the banner, Pavel!" Vyesovshchikov said glumly. "Give it to
me! I'll hide it!"

He grabbed the pole with his hand; the flag rocked backward.

"Let go!" thundered Pavel.

Nikolay drew his hand back as if it had been burned. The song died
away. Some persons crowded solidly around Pavel; but he cut through
to the front. A sudden silence fell.

Around the banner some twenty men were grouped, not more, but they
stood firmly. The mother felt drawn to them by awe and by a
confused desire to say something to them.

"Take this thing away from him, lieutenant." The even voice of the
tall old man was heard. He pointed to the banner. A little officer
jumped up to Pavel, snatched at the flag pole, and shouted shrilly:

"Drop it!"

The red flag trembled in the air, moving to the right and to the
left, then rose again. The little officer jumped back and sat down.
Nikolay darted by the mother, shaking his outstretched fist.

"Seize them!" the old man roared, stamping his feet. A few soldiers
jumped to the front, one of them flourishing the butt end of his
gun. The banner trembled, dropped, and disappeared in a gray mass
of soldiers.

"Oh!" somebody groaned aloud. And the mother yelled like a wild
animal. But the clear voice of Pavel answered her from out of the
crowd of soldiers:

"Good-by, mother! Good-by, dear!"

"He's alive! He remembered!" were the two strokes at the mother's heart.

"Good-by, mother dear!" came from Andrey.

Waving her bands, she raised herself on tiptoe, and tried to see
them. There was the round face of Andrey above the soldiers' heads.
He was smiling and bowing to her.

"Oh, my dear ones! Andriusha! Pasha!" she shouted.

"Good-by, comrades!" they called from among the soldiers.

A broken, manifold echo responded to them. It resounded from the
windows and the roofs.

The mother felt some one pushing her breast. Through the mist in
her eyes she saw the little officer. His face was red and strained,
and he was shouting to her:

"Clear out of here, old woman!"

She looked down on him, and at his feet saw the flag pole broken in
two parts, a piece of red cloth on one of them. She bent down and
picked it up. The officer snatched it out of her hands, threw it
aside, and shouted again, stamping his feet:

"Clear out of here, I tell you!"

A song sprang up and floated from among the soldiers:

"Arise, awake, you workingmen!"

Everything was whirling, rocking, trembling. A thick, alarming
noise, resembling the dull hum of telegraph wires, filled the air.
The officer jumped back, screaming angrily:

"Stop the singing, Sergeant Kraynov!"

The mother staggered to the fragment of the pole, which he had
thrown down, and picked it up again.

"Gag them!"

The song became confused, trembled, expired. Somebody took the mother
by the shoulders, turned her around, and shoved her from the back.

"Go, go! Clear the street!" shouted the officer.

About ten paces from her, the mother again saw a thick crowd of
people. They were howling, grumbling, whistling, as they backed
down the street. The yards were drawing in a number of them.

"Go, you devil!" a young soldier with a big mustache shouted right
into the mother's ear. He brushed against her and shoved her onto
the sidewalk. She moved away, leaning on the flag pole. She went
quickly and lightly, but her legs bent under her. In order not to
fall she clung to walls and fences. People in front were falling back
alongside of her, and behind her were soldiers, shouting: "Go, go!"

The soldiers got ahead of her; she stopped and looked around. Down
the end of the street she saw them again scattered in a thin chain,
blocking the entrance to the square, which was empty. Farther down
were more gray figures slowly moving against the people. She wanted
to go back; but uncalculatingly went forward again, and came to a
narrow, empty by-street into which she turned. She stopped again.
She sighed painfully, and listened. Somewhere ahead she heard the
hum of voices. Leaning on the pole she resumed her walk. Her
eyebrows moved up and down, and she suddenly broke into a sweat; her
lips quivered; she waved her hands, and certain words flashed up in
her heart like sparks, kindling in her a strong, stubborn desire to
speak them, to shout them.

The by-street turned abruptly to the left; and around the corner the
mother saw a large, dense crowd of people. Somebody's voice was
speaking loudly and firmly:

"They don't go to meet the bayonets from sheer audacity. Remember that!"

"Just look at them. Soldiers advance against them, and they stand
before them without fear. Y-yes!"

"Think of Pasha Vlasov!"

"And how about the Little Russian?"

"Hands behind his back and smiling, the devil!"

"My dear ones! My people!" the mother shouted, pushing into the crowd.
They cleared the way for her respectfully. Somebody laughed:

"Look at her with the flag in her hand!"

"Shut up!" said another man sternly.

The mother with a broad sweep of her arms cried out:

"Listen for the sake of Christ! You are all dear people, you are
all good people. Open up your hearts. Look around without fear,
without terror. Our children are going into the world. Our children
are going, our blood is going for the truth; with honesty in their
hearts they open the gates of the new road--a straight, wide road
for all. For all of you, for the sake of your young ones, they have
devoted themselves to the sacred cause. They seek the sun of new
days that shall always be bright. They want another life, the life
of truth and justice, of goodness for all."

Her heart was rent asunder, her breast contracted, her throat was
hot and dry. Deep inside of her, words were being born, words of a
great, all-embracing love. They burned her tongue, moving it more
powerfully and more freely. She saw that the people were listening
to her words. All were silent. She felt that they were thinking as
they surrounded her closely; and the desire grew in her, now a clear
desire, to drive these people to follow her son, to follow Andrey,
to follow all those who had fallen into the soldiers' hands, all
those who were left entirely alone, all those who were abandoned.
Looking at the sullen, attentive faces around her, she resumed with
soft force:

"Our children are going in the world toward happiness. They went
for the sake of all, and for Christ's truth--against all with which
our malicious, false, avaricious ones have captured, tied, and
crushed us. My dear ones--why it is for you that our young blood
rose--for all the people, for all the world, for all the workingmen,
they went! Then don't go away from them, don't renounce, don't forsake
them, don't leave your children on a lonely path--they went just for
the purpose of showing you all the path to truth, to take all on that
path! Pity yourselves! Love them! Understand the children's hearts.
Believe your sons' hearts; they have brought forth the truth; it
burns in them; they perish for it. Believe them!"

Her voice broke down, she staggered, her strength gone. Somebody
seized her under the arms.

"She is speaking God's words!" a man shouted hoarsely and excitedly.
"God's words, good people! Listen to her!"

Another man said in pity of her:

"Look how she's hurting herself!"

"She's not hurting herself, but hitting us, fools, understand that!"
was the reproachful reply.

A high-pitched, quavering voice rose up over the crowd:

"Oh, people of the true faith! My Mitya, pure soul, what has he
done? He went after his dear comrades. She speaks truth--why did
we forsake our children? What harm have they done us?"

The mother trembled at these words and replied with tears.

"Go home, Nilovna! Go, mother! You're all worn out," said Sizov loudly.

He was pale, his disheveled beard shook. Suddenly knitting his
brows he threw a stern glance about him on all, drew himself up to
his full height, and said distinctly:

"My son Matvey was crushed in the factory. You know it! But were
he alive, I myself would have sent him into the lines of those--
along with them. I myself would have told him: 'Go you, too,
Matvey! That's the right cause, that's the honest cause!'"

He stopped abruptly, and a sullen silence fell on all, in the
powerful grip of something huge and new, but something that no
longer frightened them. Sizov lifted his hand, shook it, and
continued:

"It's an old man who is speaking to you. You know me! I've been
working here thirty-nine years, and I've been alive fifty-three
years. To-day they've arrested my nephew, a pure and intelligent
boy. He, too, was in the front, side by side with Vlasov; right at
the banner." Sizov made a motion with his hand, shrank together,
and said as he took the mother's hand: "This woman spoke the truth.
Our children want to live honorably, according to reason, and we
have abandoned them; we walked away, yes! Go, Nilovna!"

"My dear ones!" she said, looking at them all with tearful eyes.
"The life is for our children and the earth is for them."

"Go, Nilovna, take this staff and lean upon it!" said Sizov, giving
her the fragment of the flag pole.

All looked at the mother with sadness and respect. A hum of
sympathy accompanied her. Sizov silently put the people out of her
way, and they silently moved aside, obeying a blind impulse to
follow her. They walked after her slowly, exchanging brief, subdued
remarks on the way. Arrived at the gate of her house, she turned to
them, leaning on the fragment of the flag pole, and bowed in gratitude.

"Thank you!" she said softly. And recalling the thought which she
fancied had been born in her heart, she said: "Our Lord Jesus Christ
would not have been, either, if people had not perished for his sake."

The crowd looked at her in silence.

She bowed to the people again, and went into her house, and Sizov,
drooping his head, went in with her.

The people stood at the gates and talked. Then they began to depart
slowly and quietly.





PART II




CHAPTER I


The day passed in a motley blur of recollections, in a depressing
state of exhaustion, which tightly clutched at the mother's body and
soul. The faces of the young men flashed before her mental vision,
the banner blazed, the songs clamored at her ear, the little officer
skipped about, a gray stain before her eyes, and through the
whirlwind of the procession she saw the gleam of Pavel's bronzed
face and the smiling sky-blue eyes of Andrey.

She walked up and down the room, sat at the window, looked out into
the street, and walked away again with lowered eyebrows. Every now
and then she started, and looked about in an aimless search for
something. She drank water, but could not slake her thirst, nor
quench the smoldering fire of anguish and injury in her bosom.
The day was chopped in two. It began full of meaning and content,
but now it dribbled away into a dismal waste, which stretched before
her endlessly. The question swung to and fro in her barren, perplexed
mind:

"What now?"

Korsunova came in. Waving her hands, she shouted, wept, and went
into raptures; stamped her feet, suggested this and that, made
promises, and threw out threats against somebody. All this failed
to impress the mother.

"Aha!" she heard the squeaking voice of Marya. "So the people have
been stirred up! At last the whole factory has arisen! All have arisen!"

"Yes, yes!" said the mother in a low voice, shaking her head. Her
eyes were fixed on something that had already fallen into the past,
had departed from her along with Andrey and Pavel. She was unable
to weep. Her heart was dried up, her lips, too, were dry, and her
mouth was parched. Her hands shook, and a cold, fine shiver ran
down her back, setting her skin aquiver.

In the evening the gendarmes came. She met them without surprise
and without fear. They entered noisily, with a peculiarly jaunty
air, and with a look of gayety and satisfaction in their faces. The
yellow-faced officer said, displaying his teeth:

"Well, how are you? The third time I have the honor, eh?"

She was silent, passing her dry tongue along her lips. The officer
talked a great deal, delivering a homily to her. The mother realized
what pleasure he derived from his words. But they did not reach her;
they did not disturb her; they were like the insistent chirp of a
cricket. It was only when he said: "It's your own fault, little
mother, that you weren't able to inspire your son with reverence
for God and the Czar," that she answered dully, standing at the door
and looking at him: "Yes, our children are our judges. They visit
just punishment upon us for abandoning them on such a road."

"Wha-at?" shouted the officer. "Louder!"

"I say, the children are our judges," the mother repeated with a sigh.

He said something quickly and angrily, but his words buzzed around her
without touching her. Marya Korsunova was a witness. She stood beside
the mother, but did not look at her; and when the officer turned to her
with a question, she invariably answered with a hasty, low bow: "I
don't know, your Honor. I am just a simple, ignorant woman. I make
my living by peddling, stupid as I am, and I know nothing."

"Shut up, then!" commanded the officer.

She was ordered to search Vlasova. She blinked her eyes, then
opened them wide on the officer, and said in fright:

"I can't, your Honor!"