William R. Shepherd - "The Hispanic Nations of the New World"

Edward Francis Wilson - "Missionary Work Among The Ojebway Indians"

Frances Hodgson Burnett - "The Head of the House of Coombe"

Ella Wheeler Wilcox - "Poems of Experience"

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




The scenery about her seemed to be slowly moving. Gray clouds
floated in the sky, chasing each other heavily; wet trees flashed
along the sides of the road, swinging their bare tops; little hills
appeared and swam asunder. The whole turbid day seemed to be
hastening to meet the sun--to be seeking it.

The drawling voice of the coachman, the sound of the bells, the
humid rustle and whistle of the wind, blended in a trembling,
tortuous stream, which flowed on with a monotonous force, and
roused the wind.

"The rich man feels crowded, even in Paradise. That's the way it
is. Once he begins to oppress, the government authorities are his
friends," quoth the coachman, swaying on his seat.

While unhitching the horses at the station he said to the mother
in a hopeless voice:

"If you gave me only enough for a drink----"

She gave him a coin, and tossing it in the palm of his hand, he
informed her in the same hopeless tone:

"I'll take a drink for three coppers, and buy myself bread for two."

In the afternoon the mother, shaken up by the ride and chilled,
reached the large village of Nikolsk. She went to a tavern and
asked for tea. After placing her heavy valise under the bench, she
sat at a window and looked out into an open square, covered with
yellow, trampled grass, and into the town hall, a long, old building
with an overhanging roof. Swine were straggling about in the square,
and on the steps of the town hail sat a bald, thin-bearded peasant
smoking a pipe. The clouds swam overhead in dark masses, and piled
up, one absorbing the other. It was dark, gloomy, and tedious.
Life seemed to be in hiding.

Suddenly the village sergeant galloped up to the square, stopped his
sorrel at the steps of the town hall, and waving his whip in the
air, shouted to the peasant. The shouts rattled against the window
panes, but the words were indistinguishable. The peasant rose and
stretched his hand, pointing to something. The sergeant jumped to
the ground, reeled, threw the reins to the peasant, and seizing the
rails with his hands, lifted himself heavily up the steps, and
disappeared behind the doors of the town hall.

Quiet reigned again. Only the horse struck the soft earth with the
iron of his shoes.

A girl came into the room. A short yellow braid lay on her neck,
her face was round, and her eyes kind. She bit her lips with the
effort of carrying a ragged-edged tray, with dishes, in her
outstretched hands. She bowed, nodding her head.

"How do you do, my good girl?" said the mother kindly.

"How do you do?"

Putting the plates and the china dishes on the table, she announced
with animation:

"They've just caught a thief. They're bringing him here."

"Indeed? What sort of a thief?"

"I don't know."

"What did he do?"

"I don't know. I only heard that they caught him. The watchman
of the town hall ran off for the police commissioner, and shouted:
'They've caught him. They're bringing him here.'"

The mother looked through the window. Peasants gathered in the
square; some walked slowly, some quickly, while buttoning their
overcoats. They stopped at the steps of the town hall, and all
looked to the left. It was strangely quiet. The girl also went to
the window to see the street, and then silently ran from the room,
banging the door after her. The mother trembled, pushed her valise
farther under the bench, and throwing her shawl over her head,
hurried to the door. She had to restrain a sudden, incomprehensible
desire to run.

When she walked up the steps of the town hall a sharp cold struck
her face and breast. She lost breath, and her legs stiffened.
There, in the middle of the square, walked Rybin! His hands were
bound behind his back, and on each side of him a policeman,
rhythmically striking the ground with his club. At the steps stood
a crowd waiting in silence.

Unconscious of the bearing of the thing, the mother's gaze was,
riveted on Rybin. He said something; she heard his voice, but
the words did not reach the dark emptiness of her heart.

She recovered her senses, and took a deep breath. A peasant with
a broad light beard was standing at the steps looking fixedly into
her face with his, blue eyes. Coughing and rubbing her throat with
her hands, weak with fear, she asked him with an effort:

"What's the matter?"

"Well, look." The peasant turned away. Another peasant came up
to her side.

"Oh, thief! How horrible you look!" shouted a woman's voice.

The policemen stepped in front of the crowd, which increased in size.
Rybin's voice sounded thick:

"Peasants, I'm not a thief; I don't steal; I don't set things on
fire. I only fight against falsehood. That's why they seized me.
Have you heard of the true books in which the truth is written about
our peasant life? Well, it's because of these writings that I
suffer. It's I who distributed them among the people."

The crowd surrounded Rybin more closely. His voice steadied the mother.

"Did you hear?" said a peasant in a low voice, nudging a blue-eyed
neighbor, who did not answer but raised his head and again looked
into the mother's face. The other peasant also looked at her. He
was younger than he of the blue eyes, with a dark, sparse beard,
and a lean freckled face. Then both of them turned away to the
side of the steps.

"They're afraid," the mother involuntarily noted. Her attention
grew keener. From the elevation of the stoop she clearly saw the
dark face of Rybin, distinguished the hot gleam of his eyes. She
wanted that he, too, should see her, and raised herself on tiptoe
and craned her neck.

The people looked at him sullenly, distrustfully, and were silent.
Only in the rear of the crowd subdued conversation was heard.

"Peasants!" said Rybin aloud, in a peculiar full voice. "Believe
these papers! I shall now, perhaps, get death on account of them.
The authorities beat me, they tortured me, they wanted to find out
from where I got them, and they're going to beat me more. For in
these writings the truth is laid down. An honest world and the
truth ought to be dearer to us than bread. That's what I say."

"Why is he doing this?" softly exclaimed one of the peasants near
the steps. He of the blue eyes answered:

"Now it's all the same. He won't escape death, anyhow. And a man
can't die twice."

The sergeant suddenly appeared on the steps of the town hall,
roaring in a drunken voice:

"What is this crowd? Who's the fellow speaking?"

Suddenly precipitating himself down the steps, he seized Rybin by
the hair, and pulled his head backward and forward. "Is it you
speaking, you damned scoundrel? Is it you?"

The crowd, giving way, still maintained silence. The mother, in
impotent grief, bowed her head; one of the peasants sighed. Rybin
spoke again:

"There! Look, good people!"

"Silence!" and the sergeant struck his face.

Rybin reeled.

"They bind a man's hands and then torment him, and do with him
whatever they please."

"Policemen, take him! Disperse, people!" The sergeant, jumping and
swinging in front of Rybin, struck him in his face, breast, and stomach.

"Don't beat him!" some one shouted dully.

"Why do you beat him?" another voice upheld the first.

"Lazy, good-for-nothing beast!"

"Come!" said the blue-eyed peasant, motioning with his head; and
without hastening, the two walked toward the town hall, accompanied
by a kind look from the mother. She sighed with relief. The
sergeant again ran heavily up the steps, and shaking his fists in
menace, bawled from his height vehemently:

"Bring him here, officers, I say! I say----"

"Don't!" a strong voice resounded in the crowd, and the mother knew
it came from the blue-eyed peasant. "Boys! don't permit it! They'll
take him in there and beat him to death, and then they'll say we
killed him. Don't permit it!"

"Peasants!" the powerful voice of Rybin roared, drowning the shouts
of the sergeant. "Don't you understand your life? Don't you
understand how they rob you--how they cheat you--how they drink your
blood? You keep everything up; everything rests on you; you are all
the power that is at the bottom of everything on earth--its whole
power. And what rights have you? You have the right to starve--
it's your only right!"

"He's speaking the truth, I tell YOU!"

Some men shouted:

"Call the commissioner of police! Where is the commissioner of police?"

"The sergeant has ridden away for him!"

"It's not our business to call the authorities!"

The noise increased as the crowd grew louder and louder.

"Speak! We won't let them beat you!"

"Officers, untie his hands!"

"No, brothers; that's not necessary!"

"Untie him!"

"Look out you don't do something you'll, be sorry for!"

"I am sorry for my hands!" Rybin said evenly and resonantly, making
himself heard above all the other voices. "I'll not escape, peasants.
I cannot hide from my truth; it lives inside of me!"

Several men walked away from the crowd, formed different circles,
and with earnest faces and shaking their heads carried on
conversations. Some smiled. More and more people came running
up--excited, bearing marks of having dressed quickly. They seethed
like black foam about Rybin, and he rocked to and fro in their midst.
Raising his hands over his head and shaking them, he called into
the crowd, which responded now by loud shouts, now by silent, greedy
attention, to the unfamiliar, daring words:

"Thank you, good people! Thank you! I stood up for you, for your
lives!" He wiped his beard and again raised his blood-covered hand.
"There's my blood! It flows for the sake of truth!"

The mother, without considering, walked down the steps, but immediately
returned, since on the ground she couldn't see Mikhail, hidden by
the close-packed crowd. Something indistinctly joyous trembled in
her bosom and warmed it.

"Peasants! Keep your eyes open for those writings; read them.
Don't believe the authorities and the priests when they tell you
those people who carry truth to us are godless rioters. The truth
travels over the earth secretly; it seeks a nest among the people.
To the authorities it's like a knife in the fire. They cannot accept
it. It will cut them and burn them. Truth is your good friend and
a sworn enemy of the authorities--that's why it hides itself."

"That's so; he's speaking the gospel!" shouted the blue-eyed peasant.

"Ah, brother! You will perish--and soon, too!"

"Who betrayed you?"

"The priest!" said one of the police.

Two peasants gave vent to hard oaths.

"Look out, boys!" a somewhat subdued cry was heard in warning.

The commissioner of police walked into the crowd--a tall, compact
man, with a round, red face. His cap was cocked to one side; his
mustache with one end turned up the other drooping made his face
seem crooked, and it was disfigured by a dull, dead grin. His left
hand held a saber, his right waved broadly in the air. His heavy,
firm tramp was audible. The crowd gave way before him. Something
sullen and crushed appeared in their faces, and the noise died away
as if it had sunk into the ground.

"What's the trouble?" asked the police commissioner, stopping in
front of Rybin and measuring him with his eyes. "Why are his hands
not bound? Officers, why? Bind them!" His voice was high and
resonant, but colorless.

"They were tied, but the people unbound them," answered one of
the policemen.

"The people! What people?" The police commissioner looked at the
crowd standing in a half-circle before him. In the same monotonous,
blank voice, neither elevating nor lowering it, he continued:
"Who are the people?"

With a back stroke he thrust the handle of his saber against the
breast of the blue-eyed peasant.

"Are you the people, Chumakov? Well, who else? You, Mishin?" and
he pulled somebody's beard with his right hand.

"Disperse, you curs!"

Neither his voice nor face displayed the least agitation or threat.
He spoke mechanically, with a dead calm, and with even movements of
his strong, long hands, pushed the people back. The semicircle
before him widened. Heads drooped, faces were turned aside.

"Well," he addressed the policeman, "what's the matter with you?
Bind him!" He uttered a cynical oath and again looked at Rybin,
and said nonchalantly: "Your hands behind your back, you!"

"I don't want my hands to be bound," said Rybin. "I'm not going
to run away, and I'm not fighting. Why should my hands be bound?"

"What?" exclaimed the police commissioner, striding up to him.

"It's enough that you torture the people, you beasts!" continued
Rybin in an elevated voice. "The red day will soon come for you,
too. You'll be paid back for everything."

The police commissioner stood before him, his mustached upper lip
twitching. Then he drew back a step, and with a whistling voice
sang out in surprise:

"Um! you damned scoundrel! Wha-at? What do you mean by your words?
People, you say? A-a----"

Suddenly he dealt Rybin a quick, sharp blow in the face.

"You won't kill the truth with your fist!" shouted Rybin, drawing
on him. "And you have no right to beat me, you dog!"

"I won't dare, I suppose?" the police commissioner drawled.

Again he waved his hand, aiming at Rybin's head; Rybin ducked;
the blow missed, and the police commissioner almost toppled over.
Some one in the crowd gave a jeering snort, and the angry shout
of Mikhail was heard:

"Don't you dare to beat me, I say, you infernal devil! I'm no
weaker than you! Look out!"

The police commissioner looked around. The people shut down on him
in a narrower circle, advancing sullenly.

"Nikita!" the police commissioner called out, looking around.
"Nikita, hey!" A squat peasant in a short fur overcoat emerged
from the crowd. He looked on the ground, with his large disheveled
head drooping.

"Nikita," the police commissioner said deliberately, twirling his
mustache, "give him a box on the ear--a good one!"

The peasant stepped forward, stopped in front of Rybin and raised his
hand. Staring him straight in the face, Rybin stammered out heavily:

"Now look, people, how the beasts choke you with your own hands!
Look! Look! Think! Why does he want to beat me--why? I ask."

The peasant raised his hand and lazily struck Mikhail's face.

"Ah, Nikita! don't forget God!" subdued shouts came from the crowd.

"Strike, I say!" shouted the police commissioner, pushing the
peasant on the back of his neck.

The peasant stepped aside, and inclining his head, said sullenly:

"I won't do it again."

"What?" The face of the police commissioner quivered. He stamped
his feet, and, cursing, suddenly flung himself upon Rybin. The blow
whizzed through the air; Rybin staggered and waved his arms; with
the second blow the police commissioner felled him to the ground,
and, jumping around with a growl, he began to kick him on his breast,
his side, and his head.

The crowd set up a hostile hum, rocked, and advanced upon the police
commissioner. He noticed it and jumped away, snatching his saber
from its scabbard.

"So that's what you're up to! You're rioting, are you?"

His voice trembled and broke; it had grown husky. And he lost his
composure along with his voice. He drew his shoulders up about his
head, bent over, and turning his blank, bright eyes on all sides, he
fell back, carefully feeling the ground behind him with his feet.
As he withdrew he shouted hoarsely in great excitement:

"All right; take him! I'm leaving! But now, do you know, you cursed
dogs, that he is a political criminal; that he is going against our
Czar; that he stirs up riots--do you know it?--against the Emperor,
the Czar? And you protect him; you, too, are rebels. Aha--a----"

Without budging, without moving her eyes, the strength of reason
gone from her, the mother stood as if in a heavy sleep, overwhelmed
by fear and pity. The outraged, sullen, wrathful shouts of the
people buzzed like bees in her head.

"If he has done something wrong, lead him to court."

"And don't beat him!"

"Forgive him, your Honor!"

"Now, really, what does it mean? Without any law whatever!"

"Why, is it possible? If they begin to beat everybody that way,
what'll happen then?"

"The devils! Our torturers!"

The people fell into two groups--the one surrounding the police
commissioner shouted and exhorted him; the other, less numerous,
remained about the beaten man, humming and sullen. Several men
lifted him from the ground. The policemen again wanted to bind
his bands.

"Wait a little while, you devils!" the people shouted.

Rybin wiped the blood from his face and beard and looked about in
silence. His gaze glided by the face of the mother. She started,
stretched herself out to him, and instinctively waved her hand. He
turned away; but in a few minutes his eyes again rested on her face.
It seemed to her that he straightened himself and raised his head,
that his blood-covered cheeks quivered.

"Did he recognize me? I wonder if he did?"

She nodded her head to him and started with a sorrowful, painful
joy. But the next moment she saw that the blue-eyed peasant was
standing near him and also looking at her. His gaze awakened her
to the consciousness of the risk she was running.

"What am I doing? They'll take me, too."

The peasant said something to Rybin, who shook his head.

"Never mind!" he exclaimed, his voice tremulous, but clear and bold.
"I'm not alone in the world. They'll not capture all the truth.
In the place where I was the memory of me will remain. That's it!
Even though they destroy the nest, aren't there more friends and
comrades there?"

"He's saying this for me," the mother decided quickly.

"The people will build other nests for the truth; and a day will
come when the eagles will fly from them into freedom. The people
will emancipate themselves."

A woman brought a pail of water and, wailing and groaning, began
to wash Rybin's face. Her thin, piteous voice mixed with Mikhail's
words and hindered the mother from understanding them. A throng
of peasants came up with the police commissioner in front of them.
Some one shouted aloud:

"Come; I'm going to make an arrest! Who's next?"

Then the voice of the police commissioner was heard. It had changed--
mortification now evident in its altered tone.

"I may strike you, but you mayn't strike me. Don't you dare, you dunce!"

"Is that so? And who are you, pray? A god?"

A confused but subdued clamor drowned Rybin's voice.

"Don't argue, uncle. You're up against the authorities."

"Don't be angry, your Honor. The man's out of his wits."

"Keep still, you funny fellow!"

"Here, they'll soon take you to the city!"

"There's more law there!"

The shouts of the crowd sounded pacificatory, entreating; they
blended into a thick, indistinct babel, in which there was something
hopeless and pitiful. The policemen led Rybin up the steps of the
town hall and disappeared with him behind the doors. People began
to depart in a hurry. The mother saw the blue-eyed peasant go
across the square and look at her sidewise. Her legs trembled under
her knees. A dismal feeling of impotence and loneliness gnawed at
her heart sickeningly.

"I mustn't go away," she thought. "I mustn't!" and holding on to
the rails firmly, she waited.

The police commissioner walked up the steps of the town hall and
said in a rebuking voice, which had assumed its former blankness
and soullessness:

"You're fools, you damned scoundrels! You don't understand a thing,
and poke your noses into an affair like this--a government affair.
Cattle! You ought to thank me, fall on your knees before me for my
goodness! If I were to say so, you would all be put to hard labor."

About a score of peasants stood with bared heads and listened in
silence. It began to grow dusk; the clouds lowered. The blue-eyed
peasant walked up to the steps, and said with a sigh:

"That's the kind of business we have here!"

"Ye-es," the mother rejoined quietly.

He looked at her with an open gaze.

"What's your occupation?" he asked after a pause.

"I buy lace from the women, and linen, too."

The peasant slowly stroked his beard. Then looking up at the town
hall he said gloomily and softly:

"You won't, find anything of that kind here."

The mother looked down on him, and waited for a more suitable moment
to depart for the tavern. The peasant's face was thoughtful and
handsome and his eyes were sad. Broad-shouldered and tall, he was
dressed in a patched-up coat, in a clean chintz shirt, and reddish
homespun trousers. His feet were stockingless.

The mother for some reason drew a sigh of relief, and suddenly
obeying an impulse from within, yielding to an instinct that got
the better of her reason, she surprised herself by asking him:

"Can I stay in your house overnight?"

At the question everything in her muscles, her bones, tightened
stiffly. She straightened herself, holding her breath, and fixed
her eyes on the peasant. Pricking thoughts quickly flashed through
her mind: "I'll ruin everybody--Nikolay Ivanovich, Sonyushka--I'll
not see Pasha for a long time--they'll kill him----"

Looking on the ground, the peasant answered deliberately, folding
his coat over his breast:

"Stay overnight? Yes, you can. Why not? Only my home is very poor!"

"Never mind; I'm not used to luxury," the mother answered uncalculatingly.

"You can stay with me overnight," the peasant repeated, measuring
her with a searching glance.

It had already grown dark, and in the twilight his eyes shone cold,
his face seemed very pale. The mother looked around, and as if
dropping under distress, she said in an undertone:

"Then I'll go at once, and you'll take my valise."

"All right!" He shrugged his shoulders, again folded his coat
and said softly:

"There goes the wagon!"

In a few moments, after the crowd had begun to disperse, Rybin
appeared again on the steps of the town hall. His hands were bound;
his head and face were wrapped up in a gray cloth, and he was pushed
into a waiting wagon.

"Farewell, good people!" his voice rang out in the cold evening
twilight. "Search for the truth. Guard it! Believe the man who
will bring you the clean word; cherish him. Don't spare yourselves
in the cause of truth!"

"Silence, you dog!" shouted the voice of the police commissioner.
"Policeman, start the horses up, you fool!"

"What have you to be sorry for? What sort of life have you?"

The wagon started. Sitting in it with a policeman on either side,
Rybin shouted dully:

"For the sake of what are you perishing--in hunger? Strive for
freedom--it'll give you bread and--truth. Farewell, good people!"

The hasty rumble of the wheels, the tramp of the horses, the shout
of the police officer, enveloped his speech and muffled it.

"It's done!" said the peasant, shaking his head. "You wait at the
station a little while, and I'll come soon."



CHAPTER XI


The mother went to the room in the tavern, sat herself at the table
in front of the samovar, took a piece of bread in her hand, looked
at it, and slowly put it back on the plate. She was not hungry; the
feeling in her breast rose again and flushed her with nausea. She
grew faint and dizzy; the blood was sucked from her heart. Before
her stood the face of the blue-eyed peasant. It was a face that
expressed nothing and failed to arouse confidence. For some reason
the mother did not want to tell herself in so many words that he
would betray her. The suspicion lay deep in her breast--a dead
weight, dull and motionless.

"He scented me!" she thought idly and faintly. "He noticed--he
guessed." Further than this her thoughts would not go, and she
sank into an oppressive despondency. The nausea, the spiritless
stillness beyond the window that replaced the noise, disclosed
something huge, but subdued, something frightening, which sharpened
her feeling of solitude, her consciousness of powerlessness, and
filled her heart with ashen gloom.

The young girl came in and stopped at the door.

"Shall I bring you an omelette?"

"No, thank you, I don't want it; the shouts frightened me."

The girl walked up to the table and began to speak excitedly in
hasty, terror-stricken tones:

"How the police commissioner beat him! I stood near and could see.
All his teeth were broken. He spit out and his teeth fell on the
ground. The blood came thick--thick and dark. You couldn't see his
eyes at all; they were swollen up. He's a tar man. The sergeant is
in there in our place drunk, but he keeps on calling for whisky.
They say there was a whole band of them, and that this bearded man
was their elder, the hetman. Three were captured and one escaped.
They seized a teacher, too; he was also with them. They don't
believe in God, and they try to persuade others to rob all the
churches. That's the kind of people they are; and our peasants,
some of them pitied him--that fellow--and others say they should
have settled him for good and all. We have such mean peasants here!
Oh, my! oh, my!"

The mother, by giving the girl's disconnected, rapid talk her fixed
attention, tried to stifle her uneasiness, to dissipate her dismal
forebodings. As for the girl, she must have rejoiced in an auditor.
Her words fairly choked her and she babbled on in lowered voice with
greater and greater animation: