John Keats - "Poems 1817"

E. Phillips Oppenheim - "Jeanne Of The Marshes"

Unknown - "The Koran"

Jean de La Fontaine - "The Tales and Novels, v1: Joconde"

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




"I'm a tinsmith, and who are you? There were three of us in Yegor
Ivanovich's circle--three tinsmiths--and there were twelve men in
all. We loved him very much--may he have eternal life!--although
I don't believe in God--it's they, the dogs, that dupe us with God,
so that we should obey the authorities and suffer life patiently
without kicking."

In one of the streets the mother hailed a cab and put Ivan into it.
She whispered, "Now be silent," and carefully wrapped his face up
in the handkerchief. He raised his hand to his face, but was no
longer able to free his mouth. His hand fell feebly on his knees;
nevertheless he continued to mutter through the bandages:

"I won't forget those blows; I'll score them against you, my dear sirs!
With Yegor there was another student, Titovich, who taught us political
economy--he was a very stern, tedious fellow--he was arrested."

The mother, drawing the boy to her, put his head on her bosom in
order to muffle his voice. It was not necessary, however, for he
suddenly grew heavy and silent. In awful fear, she looked about
sidewise out of the corners of her eyes. She felt that the policemen
would issue from some corner, would see Ivan's bandaged head, would
seize him and kill him.

"Been drinking?" asked the driver, turning on the box with a
benignant smile.

"Pretty full."

"Your son?"

"Yes, a shoemaker. I'm a cook."

Shaking the whip over the horse, the driver again turned, and
continued in a lowered voice:

"I heard there was a row in the cemetery just now. You see, they
were burying one of the politicals, one of those who are against the
authorities. They have a crow to pick with the authorities. He was
buried by fellows like him, his friends, it must be; and they up and
begin to shout: 'Down with the authorities! They ruin the people.'
The police began to beat them. It's said some were hewed down and
killed. But the police got it, too." He was silent, shaking his
head as if afflicted by some sorrow, and uttered in a strange voice:
"They don't even let the dead alone; they even bother people in
their graves."

The cab rattled over the stones. Ivan's head jostled softly against
the mother's bosom. The driver, sitting half-turned from his horse,
mumbled thoughtfully:

"The people are beginning to boil. Every now and then some disorder
crops out. Yes! Last night the gendarmes came to our neighbors,
and kept up an ado till morning, and in the morning they led away
a blacksmith. It's said they'll take him to the river at night and
drown him. And the blacksmith--well--he was a wise man--he understood
a great deal--and to understand, it seems, is forbidden. He used
to come to us and say: 'What sort of life is the cabman's life?'
'It's true,' we say, 'the life of a cabman is worse than a dog's.'"

"Stop!" the mother said.

Ivan awoke from the shock of the sudden halt, and groaned softly.

"It shook him up!" remarked the driver. "Oh, whisky, whisky!"

Ivan shifted his feet about with difficulty. His whole body
swaying, he walked through the entrance, and said:

"Nothing--comrade, I can get along."



CHAPTER IX


Sofya was already at home when they reached the house. She met the
mother with a cigarette in her teeth. She was somewhat ruffled,
but, as usual, bold and assured of manner. Putting the wounded man
on the sofa, she deftly unbound his head, giving orders and screwing
up her eyes from the smoke of her cigarette.

"Ivan Danilovich!" she called out. "He's been brought here. You
are tired, Nilovna. You've had enough fright, haven't, you? Well,
rest now. Nikolay, quick, give Nilovna some tea and a glass of port."

Dizzied by her experience, the mother breathing heavily and feeling
a sickly pricking in her breast, said: "Don't bother about me."

But her entire anxious being begged for attention and kindnesses.

From the next room entered Nikolay with a bandaged hand, and the
doctor, Ivan Danilovich, all disheveled, his hair standing on end
like the spines of a hedgehog. He quickly stepped to Ivan, bent
over him, and said:

"Water, Sofya Ivanovich, more water, clean linen strips, and cotton."

The mother walked toward the kitchen; but Nikolay took her by the
arm with his left hand, and led her into the dining room.

"He didn't speak to you; he was speaking to Sofya. You've had
enough suffering, my dear woman, haven't you?"

The mother met Nikolay's fixed, sympathetic glance, and, pressing
his head, exclaimed with a groan she could not restrain:

"Oh, my darling, how fearful it was! They mowed the comrades down!
They mowed them down!"

"I saw it," said Nikolay, giving her a glass of wine, and nodding
his head. "Both sides grew a little heated. But don't be uneasy;
they used the flats of their swords, and it seems only one was
seriously wounded. I saw him struck, and I myself carried him out
of the crowd."

His face and voice, and the warmth and brightness of the room
quieted Vlasova. Looking gratefully at him, she asked:

"Did they hit you, too?"

"It seems to me that I myself through carelessness knocked my hand
against something and tore off the skin. Drink some tea. The
weather is cold and you're dressed lightly."

She stretched out her hand for the cup and saw that her fingers were
stained with dark clots of blood. She instinctively dropped her
hands on her knees. Her skirt was damp. Ivan Danilovich came in in
his vest, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and in response to Nikolay's
mute question, said in his thin voice:

"The wound on his face is slight. His skull, however, is fractured,
but not very badly. He's a strong fellow, but he's lost a lot of
blood. We'll take him over to the hospital."

"Why? Let him stay here!" exclaimed Nikolay.

"To-day he may; and--well--to-morrow, too; but after that it'll be
more convenient for us to have him at the hospital. I have no time
to pay visits. You'll write a leaflet about the affair at the
cemetery, won't you?"

"Of course!"

The mother rose quietly and walked into the kitchen.

"Where are you going, Nilovna?" Nikolay stopped her with solicitude.
"Sofya can get along by herself."

She looked at him and started and smiled strangely.

"I'm all covered with blood."

While changing her dress she once again thought of the calmness of
these people, of their ability to recover from the horrible, an
ability which clearly testified to their manly readiness to meet
any demand made on them for work in the cause of truth. This
thought, steadying the mother, drove fear from her heart.

When she returned to the room where the sick man lay, she heard
Sofya say, as she bent over him:

"That's nonsense, comrade!"

"Yes, I'll incommode you," he said faintly.

"You keep still. That's better for you."

The mother stood back of Sofya, and puffing her hand on her shoulders
peered with a smile into the face of the sick man. She related how
he had raved in the presence of the cabman and frightened her by his
lack of caution. Ivan heard her; his eyes turned feverishly, he
smacked his lips, and at times exclaimed in a confused low voice:
"Oh, what a fool I am!"

"We'll leave you here," Sofya said, straightening out the blanket. "Rest."

The mother and Sofya went to the dining room and conversed there in
subdued voices about the events of the day. They already regarded
the drama of the burial as something remote, and looked with assurance
toward the future in deliberating on the work of the morrow. Their
faces wore a weary expression, but their thoughts were bold.

They spoke of their dissatisfaction with themselves. Nervously
moving in his chair and gesticulating animatedly the physician,
dulling his thin, sharp voice with an effort, said:

"Propaganda! propaganda! There's too little of it now. The young
workingmen are right. We must extend the field of agitation. The
workingmen are right, I say."

Nikolay answered somberly:

"From everywhere come complaints of not enough literature, and
we still cannot get a good printing establishment. Liudmila is
wearing herself out. She'll get sick if we don't see that she
gets assistance."

"And Vyesovshchikov?" asked Sofya.

"He cannot live in the city. He won't be able to go to work until
he can enter the new printing establishment. And one man is still
needed for it."

"Won't I do?" the mother asked quietly.

All three looked at her in silence for a short while.

"No, it's too hard for you, Nilovna," said Nikolay. "You'll have to
live outside the city and stop your visits to Pavel, and in general----"

With a sigh the mother said:

"For Pasha it won't be a great loss. And so far as I am concerned
these visits, too, are a torment; they tear out my heart. I'm not
allowed to speak of anything; I stand opposite my son like a fool.
And they look into my mouth and wait to see something come out that
oughtn't."

Sofya groped for the mother's hand under the table and pressed it
warmly with her thin fingers. Nikolay looked at the mother fixedly
while explaining to her that she would have to serve in the new
printing establishment as a protection to the workers.

"I understand," she said. "I'll be a cook. I'll be able to do it;
I can imagine what's needed."

"How persistent you are!" remarked Sofya.

The events of the last few days had exhausted the mother; and now as
she heard of the possibility of living outside the city, away from
its bustle, she greedily grasped at the chance.

But Nikolay changed the subject of conversation.

"What are you thinking about, Ivan?" He turned to the physician.

Raising his head from the table, the physician answered sullenly:

"There are too few of us. That's what I'm thinking of. We positively
must begin to work more energetically, and we must persuade Pavel and
Andrey to escape. They are both too invaluable to be sitting there idle."

Nikolay lowered his brows and shook his head in doubt, darting a
glance at the mother.

As she realized the embarrassment they must feel in speaking of her
son in her presence, she walked out into her own room.

There, lying in bed with open eyes, the murmur of low talking in her
ears, she gave herself up to anxious thoughts. She wanted to see
her son at liberty, but at the same time the idea of freeing him
frightened her. She felt that the struggle around her was growing
keener and that a sharp collision was threatening. The silent
patience of the people was wearing away, yielding to a strained
expectation of something new. The excitement was growing perceptibly.
Bitter words were tossed about. Something novel and stirring was
wafted from all quarters; every proclamation evoked lively discussions
in the market place, in the shops, among servants, among workingmen.
Every arrest aroused a timid, uncomprehending, and sometimes unconscious
sympathy when judgment regarding the causes of the arrest was expressed.
She heard the words that had once frightened her--riot, socialism,
politics--uttered more and more frequently among the simple folk,
though accompanied by derision. However, behind their ridicule it
was impossible to conceal an eagerness to understand, mingled with
fear and hope, with hatred of the masters and threats against them.

Agitation disturbed the settled, dark life of the people in slow but
wide circles. Dormant thoughts awoke, and men were shaken from their
usual forced calm attitude toward daily events. All this the mother
saw more clearly than others, because she, better than they, knew the
dismal, dead face of existence; she stood nearer to it, and now saw
upon it the wrinkles of hesitation and turmoil, the vague hunger for
the new. She both rejoiced over the change and feared it. She
rejoiced because she regarded this as the cause of her son; she feared
because she knew that if he emerged from prison he would stand at
the head of all, in the most dangerous place, and--he would perish.

She often felt great thoughts needful to everybody stirring in her
bosom, but scarcely ever was able to make them live in words; and
they oppressed her heart with a dumb, heavy sadness. Sometimes the
image of her son grew before her until it assumed the proportions of
a giant in the old fairy tales. He united within himself all the
honest thoughts she had heard spoken, all the people that she liked,
everything heroic of which she knew. Then, moved with delight in
him, she exulted in quiet rapture. An indistinct hope filled her.
"Everything will be well--everything!" Her love, the love of a
mother, was fanned into a flame, a veritable pain to her heart.
Then the motherly affection hindered the growth of the broader human
feeling, burned it; and in place of a great sentiment a small,
dismal thought beat faint-heartedly in the gray ashes of alarm:
"He will perish; he will fall!"

Late that night the mother sank into a heavy sleep, but rose early,
her bones stiff, her head aching. At mid-day she was sitting in the
prison office opposite Pavel and looking through a mist in her eyes
at his bearded, swarthy face. She was watching for a chance to
deliver to him the note she held tightly in her hand.

"I am well and all are well," said Pavel in a moderated voice.
"And how are you?"

"So so. Yegor Ivanovich died," she said mechanically.

"Yes?" exclaimed Pavel, and dropped his head.

"At the funeral the police got up a fight and arrested one man,"
the mother continued in her simple-hearted way.

The thin-lipped assistant overseer of the prison jumped from his
chair and mumbled quickly:

"Cut that out; it's forbidden! Why don't you understand? You know
politics are prohibited."

The mother also rose from her chair, and as if failing to comprehend
him, she said guiltily:

"I wasn't discussing politics. I was telling about a fight--and
they did fight; that's true. They even broke one fellow's head."

"All the same, please keep quiet--that is to say, keep quiet about
everything that doesn't concern you personally--your family; in
general, your home."

Aware that his speech was confused, he sat down in his chair and
arranged papers.

"I'm responsible for what you say," he said sadly and wearily.

The mother looked around and quickly thrust the note into Pavel's
hand. She breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"I don't know what to speak about."

Pavel smiled:

"I don't know either."

"Then why pay visits?" said the overseer excitedly. "They have
nothing to say, but they come here anyhow and bother me."

"Will the trial take place soon?" asked the mother after a pause.

"The procurator was here the other day, and he said it will come off soon."

"You've been in prison half a year already!"

They spoke to each other about matters of no significance to either.
The mother saw Pavel's eyes look into her face softly and lovingly.
Even and calm as before, he had not changed, save that his wrists
were whiter, and his beard, grown long, made him look older. The
mother experienced a strong desire to do something pleasant for
him--tell him about Vyesovshchikov, for instance. So, without
changing her tone, she continued in the same voice in which she
spoke of the needless and uninteresting things.

"I saw your godchild." Pavel fixed a silent questioning look on her
eyes. She tapped her fingers on her cheeks to picture to him the
pockmarked face of Vyesovshchikov.

"He's all right! The boy is alive and well. He'll soon get his
position--you remember how he always asked for hard work?"

Pavel understood, and gratefully nodded his head. "Why, of course
I remember!" he answered, with a cheery smile in his eyes.

"Very well!" the mother uttered in a satisfied tone, content with
herself and moved by his joy.

On parting with her he held her hand in a firm clasp.

"Thank you, mamma!" The joyous feeling of hearty nearness to him
mounted to her head like a strong drink. Powerless to answer in
words, she merely pressed his hand.

At home she found Sasha. The girl usually came to Nilovna on the
days when the mother had visited Pavel.

"Well, how is he?"

"He's well."

"Did you hand him the note?"

"Of course! I stuck it into his hands very cleverly."

"Did he read it?"

"On the spot? How could he?"

"Oh, yes; I forgot! Let us wait another week, one week longer.
Do you think he'll agree to it?"

"I don't know--I think he will," the mother deliberated. "Why
shouldn't he if he can do so without danger?"

Sasha shook her head.

"Do you know what the sick man is allowed to eat? He's asked for
some food."

"Anything at all. I'll get him something at once." The mother
walked into the kitchen, slowly followed by Sasha.

"Can I help you?"

"Thank you! Why should you?"

The mother bent at the oven to get a pot. The girl said in a low
voice:

"Wait!"

Her face paled, her eyes opened sadly and her quivering lips
whispered hotly with an effort:

"I want to beg you--I know he will not agree--try to persuade him.
He's needed. Tell him he's essential, absolutely necessary for the
cause--tell him I fear he'll get sick. You see the date of the trial
hasn't been set yet, and six months have already passed--I beg of you!"

It was apparent that she spoke with difficulty. She stood up straight,
in a tense attitude, and looked aside. Her voice sounded uneven,
like the snapping of a taut string. Her eyelids drooping wearily,
she bit her lips, and the fingers of her compressed hand cracked.

The mother was ruffled by her outburst; but she understood it, and
a sad emotion took possession of her. Softly embracing Sasha, she
answered:

"My dear, he will never listen to anybody except himself--never!"

For a short while they were both silent in a close embrace. Then
Sasha carefully removed the mother's hands from her shoulders.

"Yes, you're right," she said in a tremble. "It's all stupidity and
nerves. One gets so tired." And, suddenly growing serious, she
concluded: "Anyway, let's give the sick man something to eat."

In an instant she was sitting at Ivan's bed, kindly and solicitously
inquiring, "Does your head ache badly?"

"Not very. Only everything is muddled up, and I'm weak," answered
Ivan in embarrassment. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, and
screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by too brilliant a light.
Noticing that she embarrassed him by her presence and that he could
not make up his mind to eat, Sasha rose and walked away. Then Ivan
sat up in bed and looked at the door through which she had left.

"Be-au-tiful!" he murmured.

His eyes were bright and merry; his teeth fine and compact; his
young voice was not yet steady as an adult's.

"How old are you?" the mother asked thoughtfully.

"Seventeen years."

"Where are your parents?"

"In the village. I've been here since I was ten years old. I got
through school and came here. And what is your name, comrade?"

This word, when applied to her, always brought a smile to the
mother's face and touched her.

"Why do you want to know?"

The youth, after an embarrassed pause, explained:

"You see, a student of our circle, that is, a fellow who used to
read to us, told us about Pavel's mother--a workingman, you know--
and about the first of May demonstration."

She nodded her head and pricked up her ears.

"He was the first one who openly displayed the banner of our party,"
the youth declared with pride--a pride which found a response in
the mother's heart.

"I wasn't present; we were then thinking of making our own demonstration
here in the city, but it fizzled out; we were too few of us then.
But this year we will--you'll see!"

He choked from agitation, having a foretaste of the future event.
Then waving his spoon in the air, he continued:

"So Vlasova--the mother, as I was telling you--she, too, got into
the party after that. They say she's a wonder of an old woman."

The mother smiled broadly. It was pleasant for her to hear the
boy's enthusiastic praise--pleasant, yet embarrassing. She even
had to restrain herself from telling him that she was Vlasova, and
she thought sadly, in derision of herself: "Oh, you old fool!"

"Eat more! Get well sooner for the sake of the cause!" She burst
out all of a sudden, in agitation, bending toward him: "It awaits
powerful young hands, clean hearts, honest minds. It lives by these
forces! With them it holds aloof everything evil, everything mean!"

The door opened, admitting a cold, damp, autumn draught. Sofya
entered, bold, a smile on her face, reddened by the cold.

"Upon my word, the spies are as attentive to me as a bridegroom
to a rich bride! I must leave this place. Well, how are you,
Vanya? All right? How's Pavel, Nilovna? What! is Sasha here?"

Lighting a cigarette, she showered questions without waiting for
answers, caressing the mother and the youth with merry glances of
her gray eyes. The mother looked at her and smiled inwardly. "What
good people I'm among!" she thought. She bent over Ivan again and
gave him back his kindness twofold:

"Get well! Now I must give you wine." She rose and walked into
the dining room, where Sofya was saying to Sasha:

"She has three hundred copies prepared already. She'll kill herself
working so hard. There's heroism for you! Unseen, unnoticed, it
finds its reward and its praise in itself. Do you know, Sasha,
it's the greatest happiness to live among such people, to be their
comrade, to work with them?"

"Yes," answered the girl softly.

In the evening at tea Sofya said to the mother:

"Nilovna, you have to go to the village again."

"Well, what of it? When?"

"It would be good if you could go to-morrow. Can you?"

"Yes."

"Ride there," advised Nikolay. "Hire post horses, and please take
a different route from before--across the district of Nikolsk."
Nikolay's somber expression was alarming.

"The way by Nikolsk is long, and it's expensive if you hire horses."

"You see, I'm against this expedition in general. It's already
begun to be unquiet there--some arrests have been made, a teacher
was taken. Rybin escaped, that's certain. But we must be more
careful. We ought to have waited a little while still."

"That can't be avoided," said Nilovna.

Sofya, tapping her fingers on the table, remarked:

"It's important for us to keep spreading literature all the time.
You're not afraid to go, are you, Nilovna?"

The mother felt offended. "When have I ever been afraid? I was
without fear even the first time. And now all of a sudden--" She
drooped her head. Each time she was asked whether she was afraid,
whether the thing was convenient for her, whether she could do this
or that--she detected an appeal to her which placed her apart from
the comrades, who seemed to behave differently toward her than
toward one another. Moreover, when fuller days came, although at
first disquieted by the commotion, by the rapidity of events, she
soon grew accustomed to the bustle and responded, as it were, to the
jolts she received from her impressions. She became filled with a
zealous greed for work. This was her condition to-day; and, therefore,
Sofya's question was all the more displeasing to her.

"There's no use for you to ask me whether or not I'm afraid and
various other things," she sighed. "I've nothing to be afraid of.
Those people are afraid who have something. What have I? Only a
son. I used to be afraid for him, and I used to fear torture for
his sake. And if there is no torture--well, then?"

"Are you offended?" exclaimed Sofya.

"No. Only you don't ask each other whether you're afraid."

Nikolay removed his glasses, adjusted them to his nose again, and
looked fixedly at his sister's face. The embarrassed silence that
followed disturbed the mother. She rose guiltily from her seat,
wishing to say something to them, but Sofya stroked her hand, and
said quietly:

"Forgive me! I won't do it any more."

The mother had to laugh, and in a few minutes the three were
speaking busily and amicably about the trip to the village.



CHAPTER X


The next day, early in the morning, the mother was seated in the
post chaise, jolting along the road washed by the autumn rain. A
damp wind blew on her face, the mud splashed, and the coachman on
the box, half-turned toward her, complained in a meditative snuffle:

"I say to him--my brother, that is--let's go halves. We began to
divide"--he suddenly whipped the left horse and shouted angrily:
"Well, well, play, your mother is a witch."

The stout autumn crows strode with a businesslike air through the
bare fields. The wind whistled coldly, and the birds caught its
buffets on their backs. It blew their feathers apart, and even
lifted them off their feet, and, yielding to its force, they lazily
flapped their wings and flew to a new spot.

"But he cheated me; I see I have nothing----"

The mother listened to the coachman's words as in a dream. A dumb
thought grew in her heart. Memory brought before her a long series
of events through which she had lived in the last years. On an
examination of each event, she found she had actively participated
in it. Formerly, life used to happen somewhere in the distance,
remote from where she was, uncertain for whom and for what. Now,
many things were accomplished before her eyes, with her help. The
result in her was a confused feeling, compounded of distrust of
herself, complacency, perplexity, and sadness.