Allen Johnson - "Jefferson and his Colleagues, A Chronicle of the Virginia Dynasty"

Thomas Malthus - "Nature and Progress of Rent"

George Bernard Shaw - "Press Cuttings"

William Harmon Norton - "The Elements of Geology"

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




"He's dead!" she said in an unusually loud voice unfamiliar to
Vlasova. She bent down, put her elbows on the window sill, and
repeated in dry, startled tones: "He's dead! He died calmly, like
a man, without complaint." And suddenly, as if struck a blow on
the head, she dropped faintly on her knees, covered her face, and
gave vent to dull, stifled groans.



CHAPTER VII


The mother folded Yegor's hands over his breast and adjusted his
head, which was strangely warm, on the pillow. Then silently wiping
her eyes, she went to Liudmila, bent over her, and quietly stroked
her thick hair. The woman slowly turned around to her, her dull
eyes widened in a sickly way. She rose to her feet, and with
trembling lips whispered:

"I've known him for a long time. We were in exile together. We
went there together on foot, we sat in prison together; at times it
was intolerable, disgusting; many fell in spirit."

Her dry, loud groans stuck in her throat. She overcame them with an
effort, and bringing her face nearer to the mother's she continued
in a quick whisper, moaning without tears:

"Yet he was unconquerably jolly. He joked and laughed, and covered
up his suffering in a manly way, always striving to encourage the
weak. He was always good, alert, kind. There, in Siberia, idleness
depraves people, and often calls forth ugly feelings toward life.
How he mastered such feelings! What a comrade he was! If you only
knew. His own life was hard and tormented; but I know that nobody
ever heard him complain, not a soul--never! Here was I, nearer to
him than others. I'm greatly indebted to his heart, to his mind.
He gave me all he could of it; and though exhausted, he never asked
either kindness or attention in return."

She walked up to Yegor, bent down and kissed him. Her voice was
husky as she said mournfully:

"Comrade, my dear, dear friend, I thank you with all my heart!
Good-by. I shall work as you worked--unassailed by doubt--all my
life--good-by!"

The dry, sharp groans shook her body, and gasping for breath she
laid her head on the bed at Yegor's feet. The mother wept silent
tears which seared her cheeks. For some reason she tried to restrain
them. She wanted to fondle Liudmila, and wanted to speak about
Yegor with words of love and grief. She looked through her tears
at his swollen face, at his eyes calmly covered by his drooping
eyelids as in sleep, and at his dark lips set in a light, serene
smile. It was quiet, and a bleak brightness pervaded the room.

Ivan Danilovich entered, as always, with short, hasty steps. He
suddenly stopped in the middle of the room, and thrust his hands
into his pockets with a quick gesture.

"Did it happen long ago?" His voice was loud and nervous.

Neither woman replied. He quietly swung about, and wiping his
forehead went to Yegor, pressed his hand, and stepped to one side.

"It's not strange--with his heart. It might have happened six months ago."

His voice, high-pitched and jarringly loud for the occasion,
suddenly broke off. Leaning his back against the wall, he twisted
his beard with nimble fingers, and winking his eyes, rapidly looked
at the group by the bed.

"One more!" he muttered.

Liudmila rose and walked over to the window. The mother raised her
head and glanced around with a sigh. A minute afterwards they all
three stood at the open window, pressing close against one another,
and looked at the dusky face of the autumn night. On the black tops
of the trees glittered the stars, endlessly deepening the distance
of the sky.

Liudmila took the mother by the hand, and silently pressed her head
to her shoulders. The physician nervously bit his lips and wiped
his eyeglasses with his handkerchief. In the stillness beyond the
window the nocturnal noise of the city heaved wearily, and cold air
blew on their faces and shoulders. Liudmila trembled; the mother
saw tears running down her cheeks. From the corridor of the
hospital floated confused, dismal sounds. The three stood
motionless at the window, looking silently into the darkness.

The mother felt herself not needed, and carefully freeing her hand,
went to the door, bowing to Yegor.

"Are you going?" the physician asked softly without looking around.

"Yes."

In the street she thought with pity of Liudmila, remembering her
scant tears. She couldn't even have a good cry. Then she pictured
to herself Liudmila and the physician in the extremely light white
room, the dead eyes of Yegor behind them. A compassion for all
people oppressed her. She sighed heavily, and hastened her pace,
driven along by her tumultuous feelings.

"I must hurry," she thought in obedience to a sad but encouraging
power that jostled her from within.

The whole of the following day the mother was busy with preparations
for the funeral. In the evening when she, Nikolay, and Sofya were
drinking tea, quietly talking about Yegor, Sashenka appeared,
strangely brimming over with good spirits, her cheeks brilliantly
red, her eyes beaming happily. She seemed to be filled with some
joyous hope. Her animation contrasted sharply with the mournful
gloom of the others. The discordant note disturbed them and dazzled
them like a fire that suddenly flashes in the darkness. Nikolay
thoughtfully struck his fingers on the table and smiled quietly.

"You're not like yourself to-day, Sasha."

"Perhaps," she laughed happily.

The mother looked at her in mute remonstrance, and Sofya observed
in a tone of admonishment:

"And we were talking about Yegor Ivanovich."

"What a wonderful fellow, isn't he?" she exclaimed. "Modest, proof
against doubt, he probably never yielded to sorrow. I have never
seen him without a joke on his lips; and what a worker! He is an
artist of the revolution, a great master, who skillfully manipulates
revolutionary thoughts. With what simplicity and power he always
draws his pictures of falsehood, violence and untruth! And what a
capacity he has for tempering the horrible with his gay humor which
does not diminish the force of facts but only the more brightly
illumines his inner thought! Always droll! I am greatly indebted
to him, and I shall never forget his merry eyes, his fun. And I
shall always feel the effect of his ideas upon me in the time of my
doubts--I love him!"

She spoke in a moderated voice, with a melancholy smile in her eyes.
But the incomprehensible fire of her gaze was not extinguished; her
exultation was apparent to everybody.

People love their own feelings--sometimes the very feelings that are
harmful to them--are enamored of them, and often derive keen pleasure
even from grief, a pleasure that corrodes the heart. Nikolay, the
mother, and Sofya were unwilling to let the sorrowful mood produced
by the death of their comrade give way to the joy brought in by Sasha.
Unconsciously defending their melancholy right to feed on their
sadness, they tried to impose their feelings on the girl.

"And now he's dead," announced Sofya, watching her carefully.

Sasha glanced around quickly, with a questioning look. She knit
her eyebrows and lowered her head. She was silent for a short time,
smoothing her hair with slow strokes of her hand.

"He's dead?" She again cast a searching glance into their faces.
"It's hard for me to reconcile myself to the idea."

"But it's a fact," said Nikolay with a smile.

Sasha arose, walked up and down the room, and suddenly stopping,
said in a strange voice:

"What does 'to die' signify? What died? Did my respect for Yegor
die? My love for him, a comrade? The memory of his mind's labor?
Did that labor die? Did all our impressions of him as of a hero
disappear without leaving a trace? Did all this die? This best in
him will never die out of me, I know. It seems to me we're in too
great a hurry to say of a man 'he's dead.' That's the reason we too
soon forget that a man never dies if we don't wish our impressions
of his manhood, his self-denying toil for the triumph of truth and
happiness to disappear. We forget that everything should always be
alive in living hearts. Don't be in a hurry to bury the eternally
alive, the ever luminous, along with a man's body. The church is
destroyed, but God is immortal."

Carried away by her emotions she sat down, leaning her elbows on
the table, and continued more thoughtfully in a lower voice, looking
smilingly through mist-covered eyes at the faces of the comrades:

"Maybe I'm talking nonsense. But life intoxicates me by its wonderful
complexity, by the variety of its phenomena, which at times seem like
a miracle to me. Perhaps we are too sparing in the expenditure of our
feelings. We live a great deal in our thoughts, and that spoils us
to a certain extent. We estimate, but we don't feel."

"Did anything good happen to you?" asked Sofya with a smile.

"Yes," said Sasha, nodding her head. "I had a whole night's talk
with Vyesovshchikov. I didn't use to like him. He seemed rude and
dull. Undoubtedly that's what he was. A dark, immovable irritation
at everybody lived in him. He always used to place himself, as it
were, like a dead weight in the center of things, and wrathfully
say, 'I, I, I.' There was something bourgeois in this, low, and
exasperating." She smiled, and again took in everybody with her
burning look.

"Now he says: 'Comrades'--and you ought to hear how he says it,
with what a stirring, tender love. He has grown marvelously simple
and open-hearted, and possessed with a desire to work. He has found
himself, he has measured his power, and knows what he is not. But
the main thing is, a true comradely feeling has been born in him, a
broad, loving comradeship, which smiles in the face of every
difficulty in life."

Vlasova listened to Sasha attentively. She was glad to see this girl,
always so stern, now softened, cheerful, and happy. Yet from some
deeps of her soul arose the jealous thought: "And how about Pasha?"

"He's entirely absorbed in thoughts of the comrades," continued Sasha.
"And do you know of what he assures me? Of the necessity of arranging
an escape for them. He says it's a very simple, easy matter."

Sofya raised her head, and said animatedly:

"And what do YOU think, Sasha? Is it feasible?"

The mother trembled as she set a cup of tea on the table. Sasha
knit her brows, her animation gone from her. After a moment's
silence, she said in a serious voice, but smiling in joyous confusion:

"HE'S convinced. If everything is really as he says, we ought to
try. It's our duty." She blushed, dropped into a chair, and lapsed
into silence.

"My dear, dear girl!" the mother thought, smiling. Sofya also
smiled, and Nikolay, looking tenderly into Sasha's face, laughed
quietly. The girl raised her head with a stern glance for all.
Then she paled, and her eyes flashed, and she said dryly, the
offense she felt evident in her voice:

"You're laughing. I understand you. You consider me personally
interested in the case, don't you?"

"Why, Sasha?" asked Sofya, rising and going over to her.

Agitated, pale, the girl continued:

"But I decline. I'll not take any part in deciding the question
if you consider it."

"Stop, Sasha," said Nikolay calmly.

The mother understood the girl. She went to her and kissed her
silently on her head. Sasha seized her hand, leaned her cheek on
it, and raised her reddened face, looking into the mother's eyes,
troubled and happy. The mother silently stroked her hair. She
felt sad at heart. Sofya seated herself at Sasha's side, her arm
over her shoulder, and said, smiling into the girl's eyes:

"You're a strange person."

"Yes, I think I've grown foolish," Sasha acknowledged. "But I
don't like shadows."

"That'll do," said Nikolay seriously, but immediately followed up the
admonition by the businesslike remark: "There can't be two opinions
as to the escape, if it's possible to arrange it. But before
everything, we must know whether the comrades in prison want it."

Sasha drooped her head. Sofya, lighting a cigarette, looked at
her brother, and with a broad sweep of her arm dropped the match
in a corner.

"How is it possible they should not want it?" asked the mother
with a sigh. Sofya nodded to her, smiling, and walked over to the
window. The mother could not understand the failure of the others
to respond, and looked at them in perplexity. She wanted so much
to hear more about the possibility of an escape.

"I must see Vyesovshchikov," said Nikolay.

"All right. To-morrow I'll tell you when and where," replied Sasha.

"What is he going to do?" asked Sofya, pacing through the room.

"It's been decided to make him compositor in a new printing place.
Until then he'll stay with the forester."

Sasha's brow lowered. Her face assumed its usual severe expression.
Her voice sounded caustic. Nikolay walked up to the mother, who was
washing cups, and said to her:

"You'll see Pasha day after to-morrow. Hand him a note when you're
there. Do you understand? We must know."

"I understand. I understand," the mother answered quickly. "I'll
deliver it to him all right. That's my business."

"I'm going," Sasha announced, and silently shook hands with
everybody. She strode away, straight and dry-eyed, with a
peculiarly heavy tread.

"Poor girl!" said Sofya softly.

"Ye-es," Nikolay drawled. Sofya put her hand on the mother's
shoulder and gave her a gentle little shake as she sat in the chair.

"Would you love such a daughter?" and Sofya looked into the mother's face.

"Oh! If I could see them together, if only for one day!" exclaimed
Nilovna, ready to weep.

"Yes, a bit of happiness is good for everybody."

"But there are no people who want only a bit of happiness," remarked
Nikolay; "and when there's much of it, it becomes cheap."

Sofya sat herself at the piano, and began to play something
low and doleful.



CHAPTER VIII


The next morning a number of men and women stood at the gate of the
hospital waiting for the coffin of their comrade to be carried out
to the street. Spies watchfully circled about, their ears alert to
catch each sound, noting faces, manners, and words. From the other
side of the street a group of policemen with revolvers at their
belts looked on. The impudence of the spies, the mocking smiles of
the police ready to show their power, were strong provocatives to
the crowd. Some joked to cover their excitement; others looked down
on the ground sullenly, trying not to notice the affronts; still
others, unable to restrain their wrath, laughed in sarcasm at the
government, which feared people armed with nothing but words. The
pale blue sky of autumn gleamed upon the round, gray paving stones
of the streets, strewn with yellow leaves, which the wind kept
whirling about under the people's feet.

The mother stood in the crowd. She looked around at the familiar
faces and thought with sadness: "There aren't many of you, not many."

The gate opened, and the coffin, decorated with wreaths tied with
red ribbons, was carried out. The people, as if inspired with one
will, silently raised their hats. A tall officer of police with a
thick black mustache on a red face unceremoniously jostled his way
through the crowd, followed by the soldiers, whose heavy boots
trampled loudly on the stones. They made a cordon around the
coffin, and the officer said in a hoarse, commanding voice:

"Remove the ribbons, please!"

The men and women pressed closely about him. They called to him,
waving their hands excitedly and trying to push past one another.
The mother caught the flash of pale, agitated countenances, some
of them with quivering lips and tears.

"Down with violence!" a young voice shouted nervously. But the
lonely outcry was lost in the general clamor.

The mother also felt bitterness in her heart. She turned in
indignation to her neighbor, a poorly dressed young man.

"They don't permit a man's comrades even to bury him as they want
to. What do they mean by it?"

The hubbub increased and hostility waxed strong. The coffin rocked
over the heads of the people. The silken rustling of the ribbons
fluttering in the wind about the heads and faces of the carriers
could be heard amid the noise of the strife.

The mother was seized with a shuddering dread of the possible
collision, and she quickly spoke in an undertone to her neighbors
on the right and on the left:

"Why not let them have their way if they're like that? The comrades
ought to yield and remove the ribbons. What else can they do?"

A loud, sharp voice subdued all the other noises:

"We demand not to be disturbed in accompanying on his last journey
one whom you tortured to death!"

Somebody--apparently a girl--sang out in a high, piping voice:

"In mortal strife your victims fell."

"Remove the ribbons, please, Yakovlev! Cut them off!" A saber
was heard issuing from its scabbard. The mother closed her eyes,
awaiting shouts; but it grew quieter.

The people growled like wolves at bay; then silently drooping their
heads, crushed by the consciousness of impotence, they moved forward,
filling the street with the noise of their tramping. Before them
swayed the stripped cover of the coffin with the crumpled wreaths,
and swinging from side to side rode the mounted police. The mother
walked on the pavement; she was unable to see the coffin through the
dense crowd surrounding it, which imperceptibly grew and filled the
whole breadth of the street. Back of the crowd also rose the gray
figures of the mounted police; at their sides, holding their hands
on their sabers, marched the policemen on foot, and everywhere were
the sharp eyes of the spies, familiar to the mother, carefully
scanning the faces of the people.

"Good-by, comrade, good-by!" plaintively sang two beautiful voices.

"Don't!" a shout was heard. "We will be silent, comrades--
for the present."

The shout was stern and imposing; it carried an assuring threat,
and it subdued the crowd. The sad songs broke off; the talking
became lower; only the noise of heavy tramping on the stones filled
the street with its dull, even sound. Over the heads of the people,
into the transparent sky, and through the air it rose like the first
peal of distant thunder. People silently bore grief and revolt in
their breasts. Was it possible to carry on the war for freedom
peacefully? A vain illusion! Hatred of violence, love of freedom
blazed up and burned the last remnants of the illusion to ashes in
the hearts that still cherished it. The steps became heavier, heads
were raised, eyes looked cold and firm, and feeling, outstripping
thought, brought forth resolve. The cold wind, waxing stronger and
stronger, carried an unfriendly cloud of dust and street litter in
front of the people. It, blew through their garments and their
hair, blinded their eyes and struck against their breasts.

The mother was pained by these silent funerals without priests and
heart-oppressing chants, with thoughtful faces, frowning brows, and
the heavy tramp of the feet. Her slowly circling thoughts
formulated her impression in the melancholy phrase:

"There are not many of you who stand up for the truth, not many;
and yet they fear you, they fear you!"

Her head bent, she strode along without looking around. It seemed
to her that they were burying, not Yegor, but something else unknown
and incomprehensible to her.

At the cemetery the procession for a long time moved in and out
along the narrow paths amid the tombs until an open space was
reached, which was sprinkled with wretched little crosses. The
people gathered about the graves in silence. This austere silence
of the living among the dead promised something strange, which
caused the mother's heart to tremble and sink with expectation.
The wind whistled and sighed among the graves. The flowers trembled
on the lid of the coffin.

The police, stretching out in a line, assumed an attitude of guard,
their eyes on their captain. A tall, long-haired, black-browed,
pale young man without a hat stood over the fresh grave. At the
same time the hoarse voice of the captain was heard:

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

"Comrades!" began the black-browed man sonorously.

"Permit me!" shouted the police captain. "In pursuance of the order
of the chief of police I announce to you that I cannot permit a speech!"

"I will say only a few words," the young man said calmly. "Comrades!
Over the grave of our teacher and friend let us vow in silence never
to forget his will; let each one of us continue without ceasing to
dig the grave for the source of our country's misfortune, the evil
power that crushes it--the autocracy!"

"Arrest him!" shouted the police captain. But his voice was drowned
in the confused outburst of shouts.

"Down with the autocracy!"

The police rushed through the crowd toward the orator, who, closely
surrounded on all sides, shouted, waving his hand:

"Long live liberty! We will live and die for it!"

The mother shut her eyes in momentary fear. The boisterous tempest
of confused sounds deafened her. The earth rocked under her feet;
terror impeded her breathing. The startling whistles of the
policemen pierced the air. The rude, commanding voice of the
captain was heard; the women cried hysterically. The wooden fences
cracked, and the heavy tread of many feet sounded dully on the dry
ground. A sonorous voice, subduing all the other voices, blared
like a war trumpet:

"Comrades! Calm yourselves! Have more respect for yourselves!
Let me go! Comrades, I insist, let me go!"

The mother looked up, and uttered a low exclamation. A blind impulse
carried her forward with outstretched hands. Not far from her, on
a worn path between the graves, the policemen were surrounding the
long-haired man and repelling the crowd that fell upon them from all
sides. The unsheathed bayonets flashed white and cold in the air,
flying over the heads of the people, and falling quickly again with
a spiteful hiss. Broken bits of the fence were brandished; the
baleful shouts of the struggling people rose wildly.

The young man lifted his pale face, and his firm, calm voice sounded
above the storm of irritated outcries:

"Comrades! Why do you spend your strength? Our task is to arm the heads."

He conquered. Throwing away their sticks, the people dropped out
of the throng one after the other; and the mother pushed forward.
She saw how Nikolay, with his hat fallen back on his neck, thrust
aside the people, intoxicated with the commotion, and heard his
reproachful voice:

"Have you lost your senses? Calm yourselves!"

It seemed to her that one of his hands was red.

"Nikolay Ivanovich, go away!" she shouted, rushing toward him.

"Where are you going? They'll strike you there!"

She stopped. Seizing her by the shoulder, Sofya stood at her side,
hatless, her jacket open, her other hand grasping a young, light-haired
man, almost a boy. He held his hands to his bruised face, and he
muttered with tremulous lips: "Let me go! It's nothing."

"Take care of him! Take him home to us! Here's a handkerchief.
Bandage his face!" Sofya gave the rapid orders, and putting his
hand into the mother's ran away, saying:

"Get out of this place quickly, else they'll arrest you!"

The people scattered all over the cemetery. After them the
policemen strode heavily among the graves, clumsily entangling
themselves in the flaps of their military coats, cursing, and
brandishing their bayonets.

"Let's hurry!" said the mother, wiping the boy's face with the
handkerchief. "What's your name?"

"Ivan." Blood spurted from his mouth. "Don't be worried; I don't
feel hurt. He hit me over the head with the handle of his saber,
and I gave him such a blow with a stick that he howled," the boy
concluded, shaking his blood-stained fist. "Wait--it'll be different.
We'll choke you without a fight, when we arise, all the working people."

"Quick--hurry!" The mother urged him on, walking swiftly toward the
little wicket gate. It seemed to her that there, behind the fence
in the field, the police were lying in wait for them, ready to
pounce on them and beat them as soon as they went out. But on
carefully opening the gate, and looking out over the field clothed
in the gray garb of autumn dusk, its stillness and solitude at once
gave her composure.

"Let me bandage your face."

"Never mind. I'm not ashamed to be seen with it as it is. The
fight was honorable--he hit me--I hit him----"

The mother hurriedly bandaged his wound. The sight of fresh,
flowing blood filled her breast with terror and pity. Its humid
warmth on her fingers sent a cold, fine tremor through her body.
Then, holding his hand, she silently and quickly conducted the
wounded youth through the field. Freeing his mouth of the bandage,
he said with a smile:

"But where are you taking me, comrade? I can go by myself."

But the mother perceived that he was reeling with faintness, that
his legs were unsteady, and his hands twitched. He spoke to her
in a weak voice, and questioned her without waiting for an answer: