Octave Feuillet - "Monsieur de Camors, v3"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "The Lances Of Lynwood"

Willa Cather - "O Pioneers!"

Garrett P. Serviss - "The Moon Metal"

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




Pavel stopped for a second, and repeated in a lower tone, with
greater emphasis, "This will be!"

The judges whispered to one another, making strange grimaces. And
still their greedy looks were fastened on the body of Nilovna's son.
The mother felt that their gaze tarnished this supple, vigorous
body; that they envied its strength, power, freshness. The
prisoners listened attentively to the speech of their comrade; their
faces whitened, their eyes flashed joy. The mother drank in her
son's words, which cut themselves into her memory in regular rows.
The old judge stopped Pavel several times and explained something
to him. Once he even smiled sadly. Pavel listened to him silently,
and again began to speak in an austere but calm voice, compelling
everybody to listen to him, subordinating the will of the judges to
his will. This lasted for a long time. Finally, however, the old
man shouted, extending his hand to Pavel, whose voice in response
flowed on calmly, somewhat sarcastically.

"I am reaching my conclusion. To insult you personally was not my
desire; on the contrary, as an involuntary witness to this comedy
which you call a court trial, I feel almost compassion for you, I
may say. You are human beings after all; and it is saddening to
see human beings, even our enemies, so shamefully debased in the
service of violence, debased to such a degree that they lose
consciousness of their human dignity."

He sat down without looking at the judges.

Andrey, all radiant with joy, pressed his hand firmly; Samoylov,
Mazin, and the rest animatedly stretched toward him. He smiled,
a bit embarrassed by the transport of his comrades. He looked
toward his mother, and nodded his head as if asking, "Is it so?"

She answered him all a-tremble, all suffused with warm joy.

"There, now the trial has begun!" whispered Sizov. "How he gave
it to them! Eh, mother?"



CHAPTER XVI


She silently nodded her head and smiled, satisfied that her son had
spoken so bravely, perhaps still more satisfied that he had finished.
The thought darted through her mind that the speech was likely to
increase the dangers threatening Pavel; but her heart palpitated
with pride, and his words seemed to settle in her bosom.

Andrey arose, swung his body forward, looked at the judges sidewise,
and said:

"Gentlemen of the defense----"

"The court is before you, and not the defense!" observed the judge
of the sickly face angrily and loudly. By Andrey's expression the
mother perceived that he wanted to tease them. His mustache
quivered. A cunning, feline smirk familiar to her lighted up his
eyes. He stroked his head with his long hands, and fetched a breath.

"Is that so?" he said, swinging his head. "I think not. That you
are not the judges, but only the defendants----"

"I request you to adhere to what directly pertains to the case,"
remarked the old man dryly.

"To what directly pertains to the case? Very well! I've already
compelled myself to think that you are in reality judges, independent
people, honest----"

"The court has no need of your characterization."

"It has no need of SUCH a characterization? Hey? Well, but after
all I'm going to continue. You are men who make no distinction
between your own and strangers. You are free people. Now, here two
parties stand before you; one complains, 'He robbed me and did me up
completely'; and the other answers, 'I have a right to rob and to do
up because I have arms'----"

"Please don't tell anecdotes."

"Why, I've heard that old people like anecdotes--naughty ones in
particular."

"I'll prohibit you from speaking. You may say something about what
directly pertains to the case. Speak, but without buffoonery,
without unbecoming sallies."

The Little Russian looked at the judges, silently rubbing his head.

"About what directly pertains to the case?" he asked seriously.
"Yes; but why should I speak to you about what directly pertains
to the case? What you need to know my comrade has told you. The
rest will be told you; the time will come, by others----"

The old judge rose and declared:

"I forbid you to speak. Vasily Samoylov!"

Pressing his lips together firmly the Little Russian dropped down
lazily on the bench, and Samoylov arose alongside of him, shaking
his curly hair.

"The prosecuting attorney called my comrades and me 'savages,'
'enemies of civilization'----"

"You must speak only about that which pertains to your case."

"This pertains to the case. There's nothing which does not pertain
to honest men, and I ask you not to interrupt me. I ask you what
sort of a thing is your civilization?"

"We are not here for discussions with you. To the point!" said
the old judge, showing his teeth.

Andrey's demeanor had evidently changed the conduct of the judges;
his words seemed to have wiped something away from them. Stains
appeared on their gray faces. Cold, green sparks burned in their
eyes. Pavel's speech had excited but subdued them; it restrained
their agitation by its force, which involuntarily inspired respect.
The Little Russian broke away this restraint and easily bared what
lay underneath. They looked at Samoylov, and whispered to one
another with strange, wry faces. They also began to move extremely
quickly for them. They gave the impression of desiring to seize
him and howl while torturing his body with voluptuous ecstasy.

"You rear spies, you deprave women and girls, you put men in the
position which forces them to thievery and murder; you corrupt them
with whisky--international butchery, universal falsehood, depravity,
and savagery--that's your civilization! Yes, we are enemies of
this civilization!"

"Please!" shouted the old judge, shaking his chin; but Samoylov,
all red, his eyes flashing, also shouted:

"But we respect and esteem another civilization, the creators of
which you have persecuted, you have allowed to rot in dungeons,
you have driven mad----"

"I forbid you to speak! Hm-- Fedor Mazin!"

Little Mazin popped up like a cork from a champagne bottle, and said
in a staccato voice:

"I--I swear!--I know you have convicted me----"

He lost breath and paled; his eyes seemed to devour his entire face.
He stretched out his hand and shouted:

"I--upon my honest word! Wherever you send me--I'll escape--I'll
return--I'll work always--all my life! Upon my honest word!"

Sizov quacked aloud. The entire public, overcome by the mounting
wave of excitement, hummed strangely and dully. One woman cried,
some one choked and coughed. The gendarmes regarded the prisoners
with dull surprise, the public with a sinister look. The judges
shook, the old man shouted in a thin voice:

"Ivan Gusev!"

"I don't want to speak."

"Vasily Gusev!"

"Don't want to."

"Fedor Bukin!"

The whitish, faded fellow lifted himself heavily, and shaking his
head slowly said in a thick voice:

"You ought to be ashamed. I am a heavy man, and yet I understand--
justice!" He raised his hand higher than his head and was silent,
half-closing his eyes as if looking at something at a distance.

"What is it?" shouted the old judge in excited astonishment,
dropping back in his armchair.

"Oh, well, what's the use?"

Bukin sullenly let himself down on the bench. There was something
big and serious in his dark eyes, something somberly reproachful
and naive. Everybody felt it; even the judges listened, as if
waiting for an echo clearer than his words. On the public benches
all commotion died down immediately; only a low weeping swung in
the air. Then the prosecuting attorney, shrugging his shoulders,
grinned and said something to the marshal of the nobility, and
whispers gradually buzzed again excitedly through the hall.

Weariness enveloped the mother's body with a stifling faintness.
Small drops of perspiration stood on her forehead. Samoylov's
mother stirred on the bench, nudging her with her shoulder and
elbow, and said to her husband in a subdued whisper:

"How is this, now? Is it possible?"

"You see, it's possible."

"But what is going to happen to him, to Vasily?"

"Keep still. Stop."

The public was jarred by something it did not understand. All
blinked in perplexity with blinded eyes, as if dazzled by the sudden
blazing up of an object, indistinct in outline, of unknown meaning,
but with horrible drawing power. And since the people did not
comprehend this great thing dawning on them, they contracted its
significance into something small, the meaning of which was, evident
and clear to them. The elder Bukin, therefore, whispered aloud
without constraint:

"Say, please, why don't they permit them to talk? The prosecuting
attorney can say everything, and as much as he wants to----"

A functionary stood at the benches, and waving his hands at the
people, said in a half voice:

"Quiet, quiet!"

The father of Samoylov threw himself back, and ejaculated broken
words behind his wife's ear:

"Of course--let us say they are guilty--but you'll let them explain.
What is it they have gone against? Against everything--I wish to
understand--I, too, have my interest." And suddenly: "Pavel says
the truth, hey? I want to understand. Let them speak."

"Keep still!" exclaimed the functionary, shaking his finger at him.

Sizov nodded his head sullenly.

But the mother kept her gaze fastened unwaveringly on the judges,
and saw that they got more and more excited, conversing with one
another in indistinct voices. The sound of their words, cold and
tickling, touched her face, puckering the skin on it, and filling
her mouth with a sickly, disgusting taste. The mother somehow
conceived that they were all speaking of the bodies of her son and
his comrades, their vigorous bare bodies, their muscles, their
youthful limbs full of hot blood, of living force. These bodies
kindled in the judges the sinister, impotent envy of the rich by the
poor, the unwholesome greed felt by wasted and sick people for the
strength of the healthy. Their mouths watered regretfully for these
bodies, capable of working and enriching, of rejoicing and creating.
The youths produced in the old judges the revengeful, painful excitement
of an enfeebled beast which sees the fresh prey, but no longer has
the power to seize it, and howls dismally at its powerlessness.

This thought, rude and strange, grew more vivid the more attentively
the mother scrutinized the judges. They seemed not to conceal their
excited greed--the impotent vexation of the hungry who at one time
had been able to consume in abundance. To her, a woman and a
mother, to whom after all the body of her son is always dearer than
that in him which is called a soul, to her it was horrible to see
how these sticky, lightless eyes crept over his face, felt his
chest, shoulders, hands, tore at the hot skin, as if seeking the
possibility of taking fire, of warming the blood in their hardened
brains and fatigued muscles--the brains and muscles of people
already half dead, but now to some degree reanimated by the pricks
of greed and envy of a young life that they presumed to sentence and
remove to a distance from themselves. It seemed to her that her
son, too, felt this damp, unpleasant tickling contact, and,
shuddering, looked at her.

He looked into the mother's face with somewhat fatigued eyes, but
calmly, kindly, and warmly. At times he nodded his head to her,
and smiled--she understood the smile.

"Now quick!" she said.

Resting his hand on the table the oldest judge arose. His head sunk
in the collar of his uniform, standing motionless, he began to read
a paper in a droning voice.

"He's reading the sentence," said Sizov, listening.

It became quiet again, and everybody looked at the old man, small,
dry, straight, resembling the stick held in his unseen hand. The
other judges also stood up. The district elder inclined his head
on one shoulder, and looked up to the ceiling; the mayor of the
city crossed his hands over his chest; the marshal of the nobility
stroked his beard. The judge with the sickly face, his puffy
neighbor, and the prosecuting attorney regarded the prisoners
sidewise. And behind the judges the Czar in a red military coat,
with an indifferent white face looked down from his portrait over
their heads. On his face some insect was creeping, or a cobweb was
trembling.

"Exile!" Sizov said with a sigh of relief, dropping back on the
bench. "Well, of course! Thank God! I heard that they were going
to get hard labor. Never mind, mother, that's nothing."

Fatigued by her thoughts and her immobility, she understood the
joy of the old man, which boldly raised the soul dragged down by
hopelessness. But it didn't enliven her much.

"Why, I knew it," she answered.

"But, after all, it's certain now. Who could have told beforehand
what the authorities would do? But Fedya is a fine fellow, dear soul."

They walked to the grill; the mother shed tears as she pressed the
hand of her son. He and Fedya spoke words, smiled, and joked. All
were excited, but light and cheerful. The women wept; but, like
Vlasova, more from habit than grief. They did not experience the
stunning pain produced by an unexpected blow on the head, but only
the sad consciousness that they must part with the children. But
even this consciousness was dimmed by the impressions of the day.
The fathers and the mothers looked at their children with mingled
sensations, in which the skepticism of parents toward their children
and the habitual sense of the superiority of elders over youth
blended strangely with the feeling of sheer respect for them, with
the persistent melancholy thought that life had now become dull,
and with the curiosity aroused by the young men who so bravely and
fearlessly spoke of the possibility of a new life, which the elders
did not comprehend but which seemed to promise something good. The
very novelty and unusualness of the feeling rendered expression
impossible. Words were spoken in plenty, but they referred only
to common matters. The relatives spoke of linen and clothes, and
begged the comrades to take care of their health, and not to provoke
the authorities uselessly.

"Everybody, brother, will grow weary, both we and they," said
Samoylov to his son.

And Bukin's brother, waving his hand, assured the younger brother:

"Merely justice, and nothing else! That they cannot admit."

The younger Bukin answered:

"You look out for the starling. I love him."

"Come back home, and you'll find him in perfect trim."

"I've nothing to do there."

And Sizov held his nephew's hand, and slowly said:

"So, Fedor; so you've started on your trip. So."

Fedya bent over, and whispered something in his ear, smiling
roguishly. The convoy soldier also smiled; but he immediately
assumed a stern expression, and shouted, "Go!"

The mother spoke to Pavel, like the others, about the same things,
about clothes, about his health, yet her breast was choked by a
hundred questions concerning Sasha, concerning himself, and herself.
Underneath all these emotions an almost burdensome feeling was
slowly growing of the fullness of her love for her son--a strained
desire to please him, to be near to his heart. The expectation of
the terrible had died away, leaving behind it only a tremor at the
recollection of the judges, and somewhere in a corner a dark
impersonal thought regarding them.

"Young people ought to be tried by young judges, and not by old
ones," she said to her son.

"It would be better to arrange life so that it should not force
people to crime," answered Pavel.

The mother, seeing the Little Russian converse with everybody and
realizing that he needed affection more than Pavel, spoke to him.
Andrey answered her gratefully, smiling, joking kindly, as always
a bit droll, supple, sinewy. Around her the talk went on, crossing
and intertwining. She heard everything, understood everybody, and
secretly marveled at the vastness of her own heart, which took in
everything with an even joy, and gave back a clear reflection of
it, like a bright image on a deep, placid lake.

Finally the prisoners were led away. The mother walked out of the
court, and was surprised to see that night already hung over the
city, with the lanterns alight in the streets, and the stars shining
in the sky. Groups composed mainly of young men were crowding near
the courthouse. The snow crunched in the frozen atmosphere; voices
sounded. A man in a gray Caucasian cowl looked into Sizov's face
and asked quickly:

"What was the sentence?"

"Exile."

"For all?"

"All."

"Thank you."

The man walked away.

"You see," said Sizov. "They inquire."

Suddenly they were surrounded by about ten men, youths, and girls,
and explanations rained down, attracting still more people. The
mother and Sizov stopped. They were questioned in regard to the
sentence, as to how the prisoners behaved, who delivered the
speeches, and what the speeches were about. All the voices rang
with the same eager curiosity, sincere and warm, which aroused the
desire to satisfy it.

"People! This is the mother of Pavel Vlasov!" somebody shouted, and
presently all became silent.

"Permit me to shake your hand."

Somebody's firm hand pressed the mother's fingers, somebody's voice
said excitedly:

"Your son will be an example of manhood for all of us."

"Long live the Russian workingman!" a resonant voice rang out.

"Long live the proletariat!"

"Long live the revolution!"

The shouts grew louder and increased in number, rising up on all
sides. The people ran from every direction, pushing into the crowd
around the mother and Sizov. The whistles of the police leaped
through the air, but did not deafen the shouts. The old man smiled;
and to the mother all this seemed like a pleasant dream. She smilingly
pressed the hands extended to her and bowed, with joyous tears choking
her throat. Near her somebody's clear voice said nervously:

"Comrades, friends, the autocracy, the monster which devours the
Russian people to-day again gulped into its bottomless, greedy mouth----"

"However, mother, let's go," said Sizov. And at the same time Sasha
appeared, caught the mother under her arm, and quickly dragged her
away to the other side of the street.

"Come! They're going to make arrests. What? Exile? To Siberia?"

"Yes, yes."

"And how did he speak? I know without your telling me. He was more
powerful than any of the others, and more simple. And of course,
sterner than all the rest. He's sensitive and soft, only he's ashamed
to expose himself. And he's direct, clear, firm, like truth itself.
He's very great, and there's everything in him, everything! But he
often constrains himself for nothing, lest he might hinder the cause.
I know it." Her hot half-whisper, the words of her love, calmed the
mother's agitation, and restored her exhausted strength.

"When will you go to him?" she asked Sasha, pressing her hand to her
body. Looking confidently before her the girl answered:

"As soon as I find somebody to take over my work. I have the money
already, but I might go per etappe. You know I am also awaiting a
sentence. Evidently they are going to send me to Siberia, too. I
will then declare that I desire to be exiled to the same locality
that he will be."

Behind them was heard the voice of Sizov:

"Then give him regards from me, from Sizov. He will know. I'm
Fedya Mazin's uncle."

Sasha stopped, turned around, extending her hand. "I'm acquainted
with Fedya. My name is Alexandra."

"And your patronymic?"

She looked at him and answered:

"I have no father."

"He's dead, you mean?"

"No, he's alive." Something stubborn, persistent, sounded in the
girl's voice and appeared in her face. "He's a landowner, a chief
of a country district. He robs the peasants and beats them. I
cannot recognize him as my father."

"S-s-o-o!" Sizov was taken aback. After a pause he said, looking
at the girl sidewise:

"Well, mother, good-by. I'm going off to the left. Stop in sometimes
for a talk and a glass of tea. Good evening, lady. You're pretty
hard on your father--of course, that's your business."

"If your son were an ugly man, obnoxious to people, disgusting to
you, wouldn't you say the same about him?" Sasha shouted terribly.

"Well, I would," the old man answered after some hesitation.

"That is to say that justice is dearer to you than your son; and to
me it's dearer than my father."

Sizov smiled, shaking his head; then he said with a sigh:

"Well, well, you're clever. Good-by. I wish you all good things,
and be better to people. Hey? Well, God be with you. Good-by,
Nilovna. When you see Pavel tell him I heard his speech. I
couldn't understand every bit of it; some things even seemed
horrible; but tell him it's true. They've found the truth, yes."

He raised his hat, and sedately turned around the corner of the street.

"He seems to be a good man," remarked Sasha, accompanying him with
a smile of her large eyes. "Such people can be useful to the cause.
It would be good to hide literature with them, for instance."

It seemed to the mother that to-day the girl's face was softer and
kinder than usual, and hearing her remarks about Sizov, she thought:

"Always about the cause. Even to-day. It's burned into her heart."



CHAPTER XVII


At home they sat on the sofa closely pressed together, and the
mother resting in the quiet again began to speak about Sasha's
going to Pavel. Thoughtfully raising her thick eyebrows, the girl
looked into the distance with her large, dreamy eyes. A contemplative
expression rested on her pale face.

"Then, when children will be born to you, I will come to you and
dandle them. We'll begin to live there no worse than here. Pasha
will find work. He has golden hands."

"Yes," answered Sasha thoughtfully. "That's good--" And suddenly
starting, as if throwing something away, she began to speak simply
in a modulated voice. "He won't commence to live there. He'll go
away, of course."

"And how will that be? Suppose, in case of children?"

"I don't know. We'll see when we are there. In such a case he
oughtn't to reckon with me, and I cannot constrain him. He's free
at any moment. I am his comrade--a wife, of course. But the
conditions of his work are such that for years and years I cannot
regard our bond as a usual one, like that of others. It will be
hard, I know it, to part with him; but, of course, I'll manage to.
He knows that I'm not capable of regarding a man as my possession.
I'm not going to constrain him, no."

The mother understood her, felt that she believed what she said,
that she was capable of carrying it out; and she was sorry for her.
She embraced her.

"My dear girl, it will be hard for you."

Sasha smiled softly, nestling her body up to the mother's. Her
voice sounded mild, but powerful. Red mounted to her face.

"It's a long time till then; but don't think that I--that it is
hard for me now. I'm making no sacrifices. I know what I'm doing,
I know what I may expect. I'll be happy if I can make him happy.
My aim, my desire is to increase his energy, to give him as much
happiness and love as I can--a great deal. I love him very much
and he me--I know it--what I bring to him, he will give back to me--
we will enrich each other by all in our power; and, if necessary,
we will part as friends."

Sasha remained silent for a long time, during which the mother and
the young woman sat in a corner of the room, tightly pressed against
each other, thinking of the man whom they loved. It was quiet,
melancholy, and warm.

Nikolay entered, exhausted, but brisk. He immediately announced:

"Well, Sashenka, betake yourself away from here, as long as you are
sound. Two spies have been after me since this morning, and the
attempt at concealment is so evident that it savors of an arrest.
I feel it in my bones--somewhere something has happened. By the
way, here I have the speech of Pavel. It's been decided to publish
it at once. Take it to Liudmila. Pavel spoke well, Nilovna; and
his speech will play a part. Look out for spies, Sasha. Wait a
little while--hide these papers, too. You might give them to Ivan,
for example."

While he spoke, he vigorously rubbed his frozen hands, and quickly
pulled out the drawers of his table, picking out papers, some of
which he tore up, others he laid aside. His manner was absorbed,
and his appearance all upset.

"Do you suppose it was long ago that this place was cleared out?
And look at this mass of stuff accumulated already! The devil!
You see, Nilovna, it would be better for you, too, not to sleep
here to-night. It's a sorry spectacle to witness, and they may
arrest you, too. And you'll be needed for carrying Pavel's speech
about from place to place."

"Hm, what do they want me for? Maybe you're mistaken."

Nikolay waved his forearm in front of his eyes, and said, with conviction:

"I have a keen scent. Besides, you can be of great help to Liudmila.
Flee far from evil."

The possibility of taking a part in the printing of her son's speech
was pleasant to her, and she answered: