Alexander von Humboldt - "Equinoctial Regions of America V2"

Charles E. Morris - "The Progressive Democracy of James M. Cox"

James E. Seaver - "A Narrative of the Life of Mrs. Mary Jemison"

Leon Kuperman - "Korean English Dictionary"

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




"Papa says it all comes from the poor crop. This is the second year
we've had a bad harvest. The people are exhausted. That's the
reason we have such peasants springing up now. What a shame! You
ought to hear them shout and fight at the village assemblies. The
other day when Vosynkov was sold out for arrears he dealt the
starosta (bailiff) a cracking blow on the face. 'There are my
arrears for you!' he says."

Heavy steps were heard at the door. The mother rose to her feet
with difficulty. The blue-eyed peasant came in, and taking off
his hat asked:

"Where is the baggage?"

He lifted the valise lightly, shook it, and said:

"Why, it's empty! Marya, show the guest the way to my house," and
he walked off without looking around.

"Are you going to stay here overnight?" asked the girl.

"Yes. I'm after lace; I buy lace."

"They don't make lace here. They make lace in Tinkov and in
Daryina, but not among us."

"I'm going there to-morrow; I'm tired."

On paying for the tea she made the girl very happy by handing her
three kopecks. On the road the girl's feet splashed quickly in the mud.

"If you want to, I'll run over to Daryina, and I'll tell the women
to bring their lace here. That'll save your going there. It's
about eight miles."

"That's not necessary, my dear."

The cold air refreshed the mother as she stepped along beside the
girl. A resolution slowly formulated itself in her mind--confused,
but fraught with a promise. She wished to hasten its growth, and
asked herself persistently: "How shall I behave? Suppose I come
straight out with the truth?"

It was dark, damp, and cold. The windows of the peasants' huts shone
dimly with a motionless reddish light; the cattle lowed drowsily in
the stillness, and short halloos reverberated through the fields.
The village was clothed in darkness and an oppressive melancholy.

"Here!" said the girl, "you've chosen a poor lodging for yourself.
This peasant is very poor." She opened the door and shouted briskly
into the hut: "Aunt Tatyana, a lodger has come!" She ran away,
her "Good-by!" flying back from the darkness.

The mother stopped at the threshold and peered about with her palm
above her eyes. The hut was very small, but its cleanness and
neatness caught the eye at once. From behind the stove a young
woman bowed silently and disappeared. On a table in a corner toward
the front of the room burned a lamp. The master of the hut sat at
the table, tapping his fingers on its edge. He fixed his glance on
the mother's eyes.

"Come in!" he said, after a deliberate pause.

"Tatyana, go call Pyotr. Quick!"

The woman hastened away without looking at her guest. The mother
seated herself on the bench opposite the peasant and looked around--
her valise was not in sight. An oppressive stillness filled the hut,
broken only by the scarcely audible sputtering of the lamplight.
The face of the peasant, preoccupied and gloomy wavered in vague
outline before the eyes of the mother, and for some reason caused
her dismal annoyance.

"Well, why doesn't he say something? Quick!"

"Where's my valise?" Her loud, stern question coming suddenly was
a surprise to herself. The peasant shrugged his shoulders and
thoughtfully gave the indefinite answer:

"It's safe." He lowered his voice and continued gloomily: "Just
now, in front of the girl, I said on purpose that it was empty.
No, it's not empty. It's very heavily loaded."

"Well, what of it?"

The peasant rose, approached her, bent over her, and whispered:
"Do you know that man?"

The mother started, but answered firmly:

"I do."

Her laconic reply, as it were, kindled a light within her which
rendered everything outside clear. She sighed in relief. Shifting
her position on the bench, she settled herself more firmly on it,
while the peasant laughed broadly.

"I guessed it--when you made the sign--and he, too. I asked him,
whispering in his ear, whether he knows the woman standing on the steps."

"And what did he say?"

"He? He says 'there are a great many of us.' Yes--'there are a
great many of us,' he says."

The peasant looked into the eyes of his guest questioningly, and,
smiling again, he continued:

"He's a man of great force, he is brave, he speaks straight out.
They beat him, and he keeps on his own way."

The peasant's uncertain, weak voice, his unfinished, but clear face,
his open eyes, inspired the mother with more and more confidence.
Instead of alarm and despondency, a sharp, shooting pity for Rybin
filled her bosom. Overwhelmed by her feelings, unable to restrain
herself, she suddenly burst out in bitter malice:

"Robbers, bigots!" and she broke into sobs.

The peasant walked away from her, sullenly nodding his head.

"The authorities have hired a whole lot of assistants to do their
dirty work for them. Yes, yes." He turned abruptly toward the
mother again and said softly: "Here's what I guessed--that you have
papers in the valise. Is that true?"

"Yes," answered the mother simply, wiping away her tears. "I was
bringing them to him."

He lowered his brows, gathered his beard into his hand, and looking
on the floor was silent for a time.

"The papers reached us, too; some books, also. We need them all.
They are so true. I can do very little reading myself, but I have
a friend--he can. My wife also reads to me." The peasant pondered
for a moment. "Now, then, what are you going to do with them--
with the valise?"

The mother looked at him.

"I'll leave it to you."

He was not surprised, did not protest, but only said curtly, "To us,"
and nodded his head in assent. He let go of his beard, but continued
to comb it with his fingers as he sat down.

With inexorable, stubborn persistency the mother's memory held up
before her eyes the scene of Rybin's torture. His image extinguished
all thoughts in her mind. The pain and injury she felt for the man
obscured every other sensation. Forgotten was the valise with the
books and newspapers. She had feelings only for Rybin. Tears flowed
constantly; her face was gloomy; but her voice did not tremble when
she said to her host:

"They rob a man, they choke him, they trample him in the mud--the
accursed! And when he says, 'What are you doing, you godless men?'
they beat and torture him."

"Power," returned the peasant. "They have great power."

"From where do they get it?" exclaimed the mother, thoroughly
aroused. "From us, from the people--they get everything from us."

"Ye-es," drawled the peasant. "It's a wheel." He bent his head toward
the door, listening attentively. "They're coming," he said softly.

"Who?"

"Our people, I suppose."

His wife entered. A freckled peasant, stooping, strode into the
hut after her. He threw his cap into a corner, and quickly went
up to their host.

"Well?"

The host nodded in confirmation.

"Stepan," said the wife, standing at the oven, "maybe our guest
wants to eat something."

"No, thank you, my dear."

The freckled peasant moved toward the mother and said quietly,
in a broken voice:

"Now, then, permit me to introduce myself to you. My name is Pyotr
Yegorov Ryabinin, nicknamed Shilo--the Awl. I understand something
about your affairs. I can read and write. I'm no fool, so to speak."
He grasped the hand the mother extended to him, and wringing it,
turned to the master of the house.

"There, Stepan, see, Varvara Nikolayevna is a good lady, true. But
in regard to all this, she says it is nonsense, nothing but dreams.
Boys and different students, she says, muddle the people's mind with
absurdities. However, you saw just now a sober, steady man, as he
ought to be, a peasant, arrested. Now, here is she, an elderly
woman, and as to be seen, not of blue blood. Don't be offended--
what's your station in life?"

He spoke quickly and distinctly, without taking breath. His little
beard shook nervously, and his dark eyes, which he screwed up,
rapidly scanned the mother's face and figure. Ragged, crumpled, his
hair disheveled, he seemed just to have come from a fight, in which
he had vanquished his opponent, and still to be flushed with the joy
of victory. He pleased the mother with his sprightliness and his
simple talk, which at once went straight to the point. She gave him
a kind look as she answered his question. He once more shook her
hand vigorously, and laughed softly.

"You see, Stepan, it's a clean business, an excellent business. I
told you so. This is the way it is: the people, so to speak, are
beginning to take things into their own hands. And as to the lady--
she won't tell you the truth; it's harmful to her. I respect her,
I must say; she's a good person, and wishes us well--well, a little
bit, and provided it won't harm her any. But the people want to go
straight, and they fear no loss and no harm--you see ?--all life is
harmful to them; they have no place to turn to; they have nothing
all around except 'Stop!' which is shouted at them from all sides."

"I see," said Stepan, nodding and immediately adding: "She's uneasy
about her baggage."

Pyotr gave the mother a shrewd wink, and again reassured her:

"Don't be uneasy; it's all right. Everything will be all right,
mother. Your valise is in my house. Just now when he told me about
you--that you also participate in this work and that you know that
man--I said to him: 'Take care, Stepan! In such a serious business
you must keep your mouth shut.' Well, and you, too, mother, seem to
have scented us when we stood near you. The faces of honest people
can be told at once. Not many of them walk the streets, to speak
frankly. Your valise is in my house." He sat down alongside of her
and looked entreatingly into her eyes. "If you wish to empty it
we'll help you, with pleasure. We need books."

"She wants to give us everything," remarked Stepan.

"First rate, mother! We'll find a place for all of it." He jumped
to his feet, burst into a laugh, and quickly pacing up and down the
room said contentedly: "The matter is perfectly simple: in one
place it snaps, and in another it is tied up. Very well! And the
newspaper, mother, is a good one, and does its work--it peels the
people's eyes open; it's unpleasant to the masters. I do carpentry
work for a lady about five miles from here--a good woman, I must
admit. She gives me various books, sometimes very simple books.
I read them over--I might as well fall asleep. In general we're
thankful to her. But I showed her one book and a number of a
newspaper; she was somewhat offended. 'Drop it, Pyotr!' she said.
'Yes, this,' she says, 'is the work of senseless youngsters; from
such a business your troubles can only increase; prison and Siberia
for this,' she says."

He grew abruptly silent, reflected for a moment, and asked: "Tell
me, mother, this man--is he a relative of yours?"

"A stranger."

Pyotr threw his head back and laughed noiselessly, very well
satisfied with something. To the mother, however, it seemed the
very next instant that, in reference to Rybin, the word "stranger"
was not in place; it jarred upon her.

"I'm not a relative of his; but I've known him for a long time, and
I look up to him as to an elder brother."

She was pained and displeased not to find the word she wanted, and
she could not suppress a quiet groan. A sad stillness pervaded the
hut. Pyotr leaned his head upon one shoulder; his little beard,
narrow and sharp, stuck out comically on one side, and gave his
shadow swinging on the wall the appearance of a man sticking out his
tongue teasingly. Stepan sat with his elbows on the table, and beat
a tattoo on the boards. His wife stood at the oven without stirring;
the mother felt her look riveted upon herself and often glanced at the
woman's face--oval, swarthy, with a straight nose, and a chin cut off
short; her dark and thick eyebrows joined sternly, her eyelids drooped,
and from under them her greenish eyes shone sharply and intently.

"A friend, that is to say," said Pyotr quietly. "He has character,
indeed he has; he esteems himself highly, as he ought to; he has put
a high price on himself, as he ought to. There's a man, Tatyana!
You say----"

"Is he married?" Tatyana interposed, and compressed the thin lips
of her small mouth.

"He's a widower," answered the mother sadly.

"That's why he's so brave," remarked Tatyana. Her utterance was low
and difficult. "A married man like him wouldn't go--he'd be afraid."

"And I? I'm married and everything, and yet--" exclaimed Pyotr.

"Enough!" she said without looking at him and twisting her lips.
"Well, what are you? You only talk a whole lot, and on rare
occasions you read a book. It doesn't do people much good for you
and Stepan to whisper to each other on the corners."

"Why, sister, many people hear me," quietly retorted the peasant,
offended. "I act as a sort of yeast here. It isn't fair in you
to speak that way."

Stepan looked at his wife silently and again drooped his head.

"And why should a peasant marry?" asked Tatyana. "He needs a
worker, they say. What work?"

"You haven't enough? You want more?" Stepan interjected dully.

"But what sense is there in the work we do? We go half-hungry from
day to day anyhow. Children are born; there's no time to look after
them on account of the work that doesn't give us bread." She walked
up to the mother, sat down next to her, and spoke on stubbornly, no
plaint nor mourning in her voice. "I had two children; one, when he
was two years old, was boiled to death in hot water; the other was
born dead--from this thrice-accursed work. Such a happy life! I
say a peasant has no business to marry. He only binds his hands.
If he were free he would work up to a system of life needed by
everybody. He would come out directly and openly for the truth.
Am I right, mother?"

"You are. You're right, my dear. Otherwise we can't conquer life."

"Have you a husband?"

"He died. I have a son."

"And where is he? Does he live with you?"

"He's in prison." The mother suddenly felt a calm pride in these
words, usually painful to her. "This is the second time--all
because he came to understand God's truth and sowed it openly
without sparing himself. He's a young man, handsome, intelligent;
he planned a newspaper, and gave Mikhail Ivanovich a start on his
way, although he's only half of Mikhail's age. Now they're going
to try my son for all this, and sentence him; and he'll escape from
Siberia and continue with his work."

Her pride waxed as she spoke. It created the image of a hero, and
demanded expression in words. The mother needed an offset--
something fine and bright--to balance the gloomy incident she had
witnessed that day, with its senseless horror and shameless cruelty.
Instinctively yielding to this demand of a healthy soul, she reached
out for everything she had seen that was pure and shining and heaped
it into one dazzling, cleansing fire.

"Many such people have already been born, more and more are being
born, and they will all stand up for the freedom of the people,
for the truth, to the very end of their lives."

She forgot precaution, and although she did not mention names, she
told everything known to her of the secret work for the emancipation
of the people from the chains of greed. In depicting the personalities
she put all her force into her words, all the abundance of love
awakened in her so late by her rousing experiences. And she herself
became warmly enamored of the images rising up in her memory, illumined
and beautified by her feeling.

"The common cause advances throughout the world in all the cities.
There's no measuring the power of the good people. It keeps growing
and growing, and it will grow until the hour of our victory, until
the resurrection of truth."

Her voice flowed on evenly, the words came to her readily, and she
quickly strung them, like bright, varicolored beads, on strong
threads of her desire to cleanse her heart of the blood and filth
of that day. She saw that the three people were as if rooted to
the spot where her speech found them, and that they looked at her
without stirring. She heard the intermittent breathing of the woman
sitting by her side, and all this magnified the power of her faith
in what she said, and in what she promised these people.

"All those who have a hard life, whom want and injustice crush--it's
the rich and the servitors of the rich who have overpowered them.
The whole people ought to go out to meet those who perish in the
dungeons for them, and endure mortal torture. Without gain to
themselves they show where the road to happiness for all people
lies. They frankly admit it is a hard road, and they force no one
to follow them. But once you take your position by their side you
will never leave them. You will see it is the true, the right road.
With such persons the people may travel. Such persons will not be
reconciled to small achievements; they will not stop until they will
vanquish all deceit, all evil and greed. They will not fold their
hands until the people are welded into one soul, until the people
will say in one voice: 'I am the ruler, and I myself will make
the laws equal for all.'"

She ceased from exhaustion, and looked about. Her words would not
be wasted here, she felt assured. The silence lasted for a minute,
while the peasants regarded her as if expecting more. Pyotr stood
in the middle of the hut, his hands clasped behind his back, his
eyes screwed up, a smile quivering on his freckled face. Stepan was
leaning one hand on the table; with his neck and entire body forward,
he seemed still to be listening. A shadow on his face gave it more
finish. His wife, sitting beside the mother, bent over, her elbows
on her knees, and studied her feet.

"That's how it is," whispered Pyotr, and carefully sat on the bench,
shaking his head.

Stepan slowly straightened himself, looked at his wife, and threw
his hands in the air, as if grasping for something.

"If a man takes up this work," he began thoughtfully in a moderated
voice, "then his entire soul is needed."

Pyotr timidly assented:

"Yes, he mustn't look back."

"The work has spread very widely," continued Stepan.

"Over the whole earth," added Pyotr.

They both spoke like men walking in darkness, groping for the way
with their feet. The mother leaned against the wall, and throwing
back her head listened to their careful utterances. Tatyana arose,
looked around, and sat down again. Her green eyes gleamed dryly as
she looked into the peasants' faces with dissatisfaction and contempt.

"It seems you've been through a lot of misery," she said, suddenly
turning to the mother.

"I have."

"You speak well. You draw--you draw the heart after your talk.
It makes me think, it makes me think, 'God! If I could only take
a peep at such people and at life through a chink!' How does one
live? What life has one? The life of sheep. Here am I; I can
read and write; I read books, I think a whole lot. Sometimes I
don't even sleep the entire night because I think. And what sense
is there in it? If I don't think, my existence is a purposeless
existence; and if I do, it is also purposeless. And everything
seems purposeless. There are the peasants, who work and tremble
over a piece of bread for their homes, and they have nothing. It
hurts them, enrages them; they drink, fight, and work again--work,
work, work. But what comes of it? Nothing."

She spoke with scorn in her eyes and in her voice, which was low and
even, but at times broke off like a taut thread overstrained. The
peasants were silent,, the wind glided by the window panes, buzzed
through the straw of the roofs, and at times whined softly down the
chimney. A dog barked, and occasional drops of rain pattered on the
window. Suddenly the light flared in the lamp, dimmed, but in a
second sprang up again even and bright.

"I listened to your talk, and I see what people live for now. It's
so strange--I hear you, and I think, 'Why, I know all this.' And
yet, until you said it, I hadn't heard such things, and I had no
such thoughts. Yes."

"I think we ought to take something to eat, and put out the lamp,"
said Stepan, somberly and slowly. "People will notice that at the
Chumakovs' the light burned late. It's nothing for us, but, it
might turn out bad for the guest."

Tatyana arose and walked to the oven.

"Ye-es," Pyotr said softly, with a smile. "Now, friend, keep your
ears pricked. When the papers appear among the people----"

"I'm not speaking of myself. If they arrest me, it's no great matter."

The wife came up to the table and asked Stepan to make room.

He arose and watched her spread the table as he stood to one side.

"The price of fellows of our kind is a nickel a bundle, a hundred
in a bundle," he said with a smile.

The mother suddenly pitied him. He now pleased her more.

"You don't judge right, host," she said. "A man mustn't agree to
the price put upon him by people from the outside, who need nothing
of him except his blood. You, knowing yourself within, must put
your own estimate on yourself--your price, not for your enemies,
but for your friends."

"What friends have we?" the peasant exclaimed softly. "Up to the
first piece of bread."

"And I say that the people have friends."

"Yes, they have, but not here--that's the trouble," Stepan deliberated.

"Well, then create them here."

Stepan reflected a while. "We'll try."

"Sit down at the table," Tatyana invited her.

At supper, Pyotr, who had been subdued by the talk of the mother and
appeared to be at a loss, began to speak again with animation:

"Mother, you ought to get out of here as soon as possible, to escape
notice. Go to the next station, not to the city--hire the post horses."

"Why? I'm going to see her off!" said Stepan.

"You mustn't. In case anything happens and they ask you whether
she slept in your house--'She did.' 'When did she go?' 'I saw her
off.' 'Aha! You did? Please come to prison!' Do you understand?
And no one ought to be in a hurry to get into prison; everybody's
turn will come. 'Even the Czar will die,' as the saying goes. But
the other way: she simply spent the night in your house, hired
horses, and went away. And what of it? Somebody passing through the
village sleeps with somebody in the village. There's nothing in that."

"Where did you learn to be afraid, Pyotr?" Tatyana scoffed.

"A man must know everything, friend!" Pyotr exclaimed, striking his
knee--"know how to fear, know how to be brave. You remember how a
policeman lashed Vaganov for that newspaper? Now you'll not persuade
Vaganov for any amount of money to take a book in his hand. Yes;
you believe me, mother, I'm a sharp fellow for every sort of a trick
--everybody knows it. I'm going to scatter these books and papers
for you in the best shape and form, as much as you please. Of course,
the people here are not educated; they've been intimidated. However,
the times squeeze a man and wide open go his eyes, 'What's the matter?'
And the book answers him in a perfectly simple way: 'That's what's
the matter--Think! Unite! Nothing else is left for you to do!'
There are examples of men who can't read or write and can understand
more than the educated ones--especially if the educated ones have
their stomachs full. I go about here everywhere; I see much. Well?
It's possible to live; but you want brains and a lot of cleverness
in order not to sit down in the cesspool at once. The authorities,
too, smell a rat, as though a cold wind were blowing on them from
the peasants. They see the peasant smiles very little, and altogether
is not very kindly disposed and wants to disaccustom himself to the
authorities. The other day in Smolyakov, a village not far from here,
they came to extort the taxes; and your peasants got stubborn and
flew into a passion. The police commissioner said straight out:
'Oh, you damned scoundrels! why, this is disobedience to the Czar!'
There was one little peasant there, Spivakin, and says he: 'Off
with you to the evil mother with your Czar! What kind of a Czar
is he if he pulls the last shirt off your body?' That's how far
it went, mother. Of course, they snatched Spivakin off to prison.
But the word remained, and even the little boys know it. It lives!
It shouts! And perhaps in our days the word is worth more than a
man. People are stupefied and deadened by their absorption in
breadwinning. Yes."

Pyotr did not eat, but kept on talking in a quick whisper, his dark,
roguish eyes gleaming merrily. He lavishly scattered before the
mother innumerable little observations on the village life--they
rolled from him like copper coins from a full purse.

Stepan several times reminded him: "Why don't you eat?" Pyotr
would then seize a piece of bread and a spoon and fall to talking
and sputtering again like a goldfinch. Finally, after the meal, he
jumped to his feet and announced:

"Well, it's time for me to go home. Good-by, mother!" and he shook
her hand and nodded his head. "Maybe we shall never see each other
again. I must say to you that all this is very good--to meet you
and hear your speeches--very good! Is there anything in your valise
beside the printed matter? A shawl? Excellent! A shawl, remember,
Stepan. He'll bring you the valise at once. Come, Stepan. Good-by.
I wish everything good to you."