E. Nesbit - "In Homespun"

Roy Benson, Jr. - "The Biography of a Rabbit"

Martha Finley - "Elsie Dinsmore"

Maria Edgeworth - "The Parent's Assistant"

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




"Why?" asked the manager, without looking at Pavel.

"We do not consider such a tax just!" Pavel replied loudly.

"So, in my plan to drain the marsh you see only a desire to exploit the
workingmen and not a desire to better their conditions; is that it?"

"Yes!" Pavel replied.

"And you, also?" the manager asked Rybin.

"The very same!"

"How about you, my worthy friend?" The manager turned to Sizov.

"I, too, want to ask you to let us keep our kopecks." And drooping
his head again, Sizov smiled guiltily. The manager slowly bent his
look upon the crowd again, shrugged his shoulders, and then,
regarding Pavel searchingly, observed:

"You appear to be a fairly intelligent man. Do you not understand
the usefulness of this measure?"

Pavel replied loudly:

"If the factory should drain the marsh at its own expense, we would
all understand it!"

"This factory is not in the philanthropy business!" remarked the
manager dryly. "I order you all to start work at once!"

And he began to descend, cautiously feeling the iron with his feet,
and without looking at anyone.

A dissatisfied hum was heard in the crowd.

"What!" asked the manager, halting.

All were silent; then from the distance came a solitary voice:

"You go to work yourself!"

"If in fifteen minutes you do not start work, I'll order every single
one of you to be discharged!" the manager announced dryly and distinctly.

He again proceeded through the crowd, but now an indistinct murmur
followed him, and the shouting grew louder as his figure receded.

"Speak to him!"

"That's what you call justice! Worse luck!"

Some turned to Pavel and shouted:

"Say, you great lawyer, you, what's to be done now? You talked and
talked, but the moment he came it all went up in the air!"

"Well, Vlasov, what now?"

When the shouts became more insistent, Pavel raised his hand and said:

"Comrades, I propose that we quit work until he gives up that kopeck!"

Excited voices burst out:

"He thinks we're fools!"

"We ought to do it!"

"A strike?"

"For one kopeck?"

"Why not? Why not strike?"

"We'll all be discharged!"

"And who is going to do the work?"

"There are others!"

"Who? Judases?"

"Every year I would have to give three rubles and sixty kopecks
to the mosquitoes!"

"All of us would have to give it!"

Pavel walked down and stood at the side of his mother. No one paid
any attention to him now. They were all yelling and debating hotly
with one another.

"You cannot get them to strike!" said Rybin, coming up to Pavel.
"Greedy as these people are for a penny, they are too cowardly.
You may, perhaps, induce about three hundred of them to follow you,
no more. It's a heap of dung you won't lift with one toss of the
pitchfork, I tell you!"

Pavel was silent. In front of him the huge black face of the crowd
was rocking wildly, and fixed on him an importunate stare. His
heart beat in alarm. It seemed to him as if all the words he had
spoken vanished in the crowd without leaving any trace, like
scattered drops of rain falling on parched soil. One after the
other, workmen approached him praising his speech, but doubting the
success of a strike, and complaining how little the people
understood their own interests and realized their own strength.

Pavel had a sense of injury and disappointment as to his own power.
His head ached; he felt desolate. Hitherto, whenever he pictured
the triumph of his truth, he wanted to cry with the delight that
seized his heart. But here he had spoken his truth to the people,
and behold! when clothed in words it appeared so pale, so powerless,
so incapable of affecting anyone. He blamed himself; it seemed to
him that he had concealed his dream in a poor, disfiguring garment,
and no one could, therefore, detect its beauty.

He went home, tired and moody. He was followed by his mother and
Sizov, while Rybin walked alongside, buzzing into his ear:

"You speak well, but you don't speak to the heart! That's the trouble!
The spark must be thrown into the heart, into its very depths!"

"It's time we lived and were guided by reason," Pavel said in a low voice.

"The boot does not fit the foot; it's too thin and narrow! The
foot won't get in! And if it does, it will wear the boot out mighty
quick. That is the trouble."

Sizov, meanwhile, talked to the mother.

"It's time for us old folks to get into our graves. Nilovna! A new
people is coming. What sort of a life have we lived? We crawled
on our knees, and always crouched on the ground! But here are the
new people. They have either come to their senses, or else are
blundering worse than we; but they are not like us, anyway. Just
look at those youngsters talking to the manager as to their equal!
Yes, ma'am! Oh, if only my son Matvey were alive! Good-by, Pavel
Vlasov! You stand up for the people all right, brother. God grant
you his favor! Perhaps you'll find a way out. God grant it!" And
he walked away.

"Yes, you may as well die straight off!" murmured Rybin. "You are
no men, now. You are only putty--good to fill cracks with, that's
all! Did you see, Pavel, who it was that shouted to make you a
delegate? It was those who call you socialist--agitator--yes!--
thinking you'd be discharged, and it would serve you right!"

"They are right, according to their lights!" said Pavel.

"So are wolves when they tear one another to pieces!" Rybin's face
was sullen, his voice unusually tremulous.

The whole day Pavel felt ill at ease, as if he had lost something,
he did not know what, and anticipated a further loss.

At night when the mother was asleep and he was reading in bed,
gendarmes appeared and began to search everywhere--in the yard, in
the attic. They were sullen; the yellow-faced officer conducted
himself as on the first occasion, insultingly, derisively, delighting
in abuse, endeavoring to cut down to the very heart. The mother,
in a corner, maintained silence, never removing her eyes from her
son's face. He made every effort not to betray his emotion; but
whenever the officer laughed, his fingers twitched strangely, and
the old woman felt how hard it was for him not to reply, and to bear
the jesting. This time the affair was not so terrorizing to her
as at the first search. She felt a greater hatred to these gray,
spurred night callers, and her hatred swallowed up her alarm.

Pavel managed to whisper:

"They'll arrest me."

Inclining her head, she quietly replied:

"I understand."

She did understand--they would put him in jail for what he had said to
the workingmen that day. But since all agreed with what he had said,
and all ought to stand up for him, he would not be detained long.

She longed to embrace him and cry over him; but there stood the
officer, watching her with a malevolent squint of his eyes. His
lips trembled, his mustache twitched. It seemed to Vlasova that
the officer was but waiting for her tears, complaints, and
supplications. With a supreme effort endeavoring to say as little
as possible, she pressed her son's hand, and holding her breath
said slowly, in a low tone:

"Good-by, Pasha. Did you take everything you need?"

"Everything. Don't worry!"

"Christ be with you!"



CHAPTER IX


When the police had led Pavel away, the mother sat down on the
bench, and closing her eyes began to weep quietly. She leaned her
back against the wall, as her husband used to do, her head thrown
backward. Bound up in her grief and the injured sense of her
impotence, she cried long, gently, and monotonously, pouring out all
the pain of her wounded heart in her sobs. And before her, like an
irremovable stain, hung that yellow face with the scant mustache, and
the squinting eyes staring at her with malicious pleasure. Resentment
and bitterness were winding themselves about her breast like black
threads on a spool; resentment and bitterness toward those who tear
a son away from his mother because he is seeking truth.

It was cold; the rain pattered against the window panes; something
seemed to be creeping along the walls. She thought she heard,
walking watchfully around the house, gray, heavy figures, with
broad, red faces, without eyes, and with long arms. It seemed to
her that she almost heard the jingling of their spurs.

"I wish they had taken me, too!" she thought.

The whistle blew, calling the people to work. This time its sounds
were low, indistinct, uncertain. The door opened and Rybin entered.
He stood before her, wiping the raindrops from his beard.

"They snatched him away, did they?" he asked.

"Yes, they did, the dogs!" she replied, sighing.

"That's how it is," said Rybin, with a smile; "they searched me,
too; went all through me--yes! Abused me to their heart's content,
but did me no harm beyond that. So they carried off Pavel, did
they? The manager tipped the wink, the gendarme said 'Amen!' and
lo! a man has disappeared. They certainly are thick together. One
goes through the people's pockets while the other holds the gun."

"You ought to stand up for Pavel!" cried the mother, rising to her
feet. "It's for you all that he's gone!"

"Who ought to stand up for him?" asked Rybin.

"All of you!"

"You want too much! We'll do nothing of the kind! Our masters
have been gathering strength for thousands of years; they have
driven our hearts full of nails. We cannot unite at once. We
must first extract from ourselves, each from the other, the iron
spikes that prevent us from standing close to one another."

And thus he departed, with his heavy gait, leaving the mother to
her grief, aggravated by the stern hopelessness of his words.

The day passed in a thick mist of empty, senseless longing. She
made no fire, cooked no dinner, drank no tea, and only late in the
evening ate a piece of bread. When she went to bed it occurred to
her that her life had never yet been so humiliating, so lonely and
void. During the last years she had become accustomed to live
constantly in the expectation of something momentous, something
good. Young people were circling around her, noisy, vigorous, full
of life. Her son's thoughtful and earnest face was always before
her, and he seemed to be the master and creator of this thrilling
and noble life. Now he was gone, everything was gone. In the whole
day, no one except the disagreeable Rybin had called.

Beyond the window, the dense, cold rain was sighing and knocking
at the panes. The rain and the drippings from the roof filled the
air with a doleful, wailing melody. The whole house appeared to be
rocking gently to and fro, and everything around her seemed aimless
and unnecessary.

A gentle rap was heard at the door. It came once, and then a second
time. She had grown accustomed to these noises; they no longer
frightened her. A soft, joyous sensation thrilled her heart, and a
vague hope quickly brought her to her feet. Throwing a shawl over
her shoulders, she hurried to the door and opened it.

Samoylov walked in, followed by another man with his face hidden
behind the collar of his overcoat and under a hat thrust over his
eyebrows.

"Did we wake you?" asked Samoylov, without greeting the mother, his
face gloomy and thoughtful, contrary to his wont.

"I was not asleep," she said, looking at them with expectant eyes.

Samoylov's companion took off his hat, and breathing heavily and
hoarsely said in a friendly basso, like an old acquaintance, giving
her his broad, short-fingered hand:

"Good evening, granny! You don't recognize me?"

"Is it you?" exclaimed Nilovna, with a sudden access of delight.
"Yegor Ivanovich?"

"The very same identical one!" replied he, bowing his large head
with its long hair. There was a good-natured smile on his face, and
a clear, caressing look in his small gray eyes. He was like a
samovar--rotund, short, with thick neck and short arms. His face
was shiny and glossy, with high cheek bones. He breathed noisily,
and his chest kept up a continuous low wheeze.

"Step into the room. I'll be dressed in a minute," the mother said.

"We have come to you on business," said Samoylov thoughtfully,
looking at her out of the corner of his eyes.

Yegor Ivanovich passed into the room, and from there said:

"Nikolay got out of jail this morning, granny. You know him?"

"How long was he there?" she asked.

"Five months and eleven days. He saw the Little Russian there, who
sends you his regards, and Pavel, who also sends you his regards and
begs you not to be alarmed. As a man travels on his way, he says,
the jails constitute his resting places, established and maintained
by the solicitous authorities! Now, granny, let us get to the point.
Do you know how many people were arrested yesterday?"

"I do not. Why, were there any others arrested besides Pavel?"
she exclaimed.

"He was the forty-ninth!" calmly interjected Yegor Ivanovich. "And
we may expect about ten more to be taken! This gentleman here,
for example."

"Yes; me, too!" said Samoylov with a frown.

Nilovna somehow felt relieved.

"He isn't there alone," she thought.

When she had dressed herself, she entered the room and, smiling
bravely, said:

"I guess they won't detain them long, if they arrested so many."

"You are right," assented Yegor Ivanovich; "and if we can manage
to spoil this mess for them, we can make them look altogether like
fools. This is the way it is, granny. If we were now to cease
smuggling our literature into the factory, the gendarmes would take
advantage of such a regrettable circumstance, and would use it
against Pavel and his comrades in jail."

"How is that? Why should they?" the mother cried in alarm.

"It's very plain, granny," said Yegor Ivanovich softly. "Sometimes
even gendarmes reason correctly. Just think! Pavel was, and there
were books and there were papers; Pavel is not, and no books and no
papers! Ergo, it was Pavel who distributed these books! Aha! Then
they'll begin to eat them all alive. Those gendarmes dearly love so
to unman a man that what remains of him is only a shred of himself,
and a touching memory."

"I see, I see," said the mother dejectedly. "O God! What's to be
done, then?"

"They have trapped them all, the devil take them!" came Samoylov's
voice from the kitchen. "Now we must continue our work the same as
before, and not only for the cause itself, but also to save our comrades!"

"And there is no one to do the work," added Yegor, smiling. "We
have first-rate literature. I saw to that myself. But how to get
it into the factory, that's the question!"

"They search everybody at the gates now," said Samoylov.

The mother divined that something was expected of her. She understood
that she could be useful to her son, and she hastened to ask:

"Well, now? What are we to do?"

Samoylov stood in the doorway to answer.

"Pelagueya Nilovna, you know Marya Korsunova, the peddler."

"I do. Well?"

"Speak to her; see if you can't get her to smuggle in our wares."

"We could pay her, you know," interjected Yegor.

The mother waved her hands in negation.

"Oh, no! The woman is a chatterbox. No! If they find out it comes
from me, from this house--oh, no!"

Then, inspired by a sudden idea, she began gladly and in a low voice:

"Give it to me, give it to me. I'll manage it myself. I'll find a
way. I will ask Marya to make me her assistant. I have to earn my
living, I have to work. Don't I? Well, then, I'll carry dinners to
the factory. Yes, I'll manage it!"

Pressing her hands to her bosom, she gave hurried assurances that
she would carry out her mission well and escape detection. Finally
she exclaimed in triumph: "They'll find out--Pavel Vlasov is away,
but his arm reaches out even from jail. They'll find out!"

All three became animated. Briskly rubbing his hands, Yegor smiled
and said:

"It's wonderful, stupendous! I say, granny, it's superb--simply
magnificent!"

"I'll sit in jail as in an armchair, if this succeeds," said
Samoylov, laughing and rubbing his hands.

"You are fine, granny!" Yegor hoarsely cried.

The mother smiled. It was evident to her that if the leaflets
should continue to appear in the factory, the authorities would be
forced to recognize that it was not her son who distributed them.
And feeling assured of success, she began to quiver all over with joy.

"When you go to see Pavel," said Yegor, "tell him he has a good mother."

"I'll see him very soon, I assure you," said Samoylov, smiling.

The mother grasped his hand and said earnestly:

"Tell him that I'll do everything, everything necessary. I want
him to know it."

"And suppose they don't put him in prison?" asked Yegor, pointing
at Samoylov.

The mother sighed and said sadly:

"Well, then, it can't be helped!"

Both of them burst out laughing. And when she realized her ridiculous
blunder, she also began to laugh in embarrassment, and lowering
her eyes said somewhat slyly:

"Bothering about your own folk keeps you from seeing other people
straight."

"That's natural!" exclaimed Yegor. "And as to Pavel, you need not
worry about him. He'll come out of prison a still better man. The
prison is our place of rest and study--things we have no time for
when we are at large. I was in prison three times, and each time,
although I got scant pleasure, I certainly derived benefit for my
heart and mind."

"You breathe with difficulty," she said, looking affectionately at
his open face.

"There are special reasons for that," he replied, raising his finger.
"So the matter's settled, granny? Yes? To-morrow we'll deliver the
matter to you--and the wheels that grind the centuried darkness to
destruction will again start a-rolling. Long live free speech! And
long live a mother's heart! And in the meantime, good-by."

"Good-by," said Samoylov, giving her a vigorous handshake. "To my
mother, I don't dare even hint about such matters. Oh, no!"

"Everybody will understand in time," said Nilovna, wishing to please
him. "Everybody will understand."

When they left, she locked the door, and kneeling in the middle of
the room began to pray, to the accompaniment of the patter of the
rain. It was a prayer without words, one great thought of men, of
all those people whom Pavel introduced into her life. It was as if
they passed between her, and the ikons upon which she held her eyes
riveted. And they all looked so simple, so strangely near to one
another, yet so lone in life.

Early next morning the mother went to Marya Korsunova. The peddler,
noisy and greasy as usual, greeted her with friendly sympathy.

"You are grieving?" Marya asked, patting the mother on the back.
"Now, don't. They just took him, carried him off. Where is the
calamity? There is no harm in it. It used to be that men were
thrown into dungeons for stealing, now they are there for telling
the truth. Pavel may have said something wrong, but he stood up for
all, and they all know it. Don't worry! They don't all say so, but
they all know a good man when they see, him. I was going to call on
you right along, but had no time. I am always cooking and selling,
but will end my days a beggar, I guess, all the same. My needs get
the best of me, confound them! They keep nibbling and nibbling like
mice at a piece of cheese. No sooner do I manage to scrape together
ten rubles or so, when along comes some heathen, and makes away with
all my money. Yes. It's hard to be a woman! It's a wretched
business! To live alone is hard, to live with anyone, still harder!"

"And I came to ask you to take me as your assistant," Vlasova broke
in, interrupting her prattle.

"How is that?" asked Marya. And after hearing her friend's
explanation, she nodded her head assentingly.

"That's possible! You remember how you used to hide me from my
husband? Well, now I am going to hide you from want. Everyone
ought to help you, for your son is perishing for the public cause.
He is a fine chap, your son is! They all say so, every blessed
soul of them. And they all pity him. I'll tell you something. No
good is going to come to the authorities from these arrests, mark my
word! Look what's going on in the factory! Hear them talk! They
are in an ugly mood, my dear! The officials imagine that when
they've bitten at a man's heel, he won't be able to go far. But it
turns out that when ten men are hit, a hundred men get angry. A
workman must be handled with care! He may go on patiently enduring
and suffering everything that's heaped upon him for a long, long
time, but then he can also explode all of a sudden!"



CHAPTER X


The upshot of the conversation was that the next day at noon the
mother was seen in factory yard with two pots of eatables from
Marya's culinary establishment, while Marya herself transferred
her base of operations to the market place.

The workmen immediately noticed their new caterer. Some of them
approached her and said approvingly:

"Gone into business, Nilovna?"

They comforted her, arguing that Pavel would certainly be released
soon because his cause was a good one. Others filled her sad heart
with alarm by their cautious condolence, while still others awoke
a responsive echo in her by openly and bitterly abusing the manager
and the gendarmes. Some there were who looked at her with a
vindictive expression, among them Isay Gorbov, who, speaking through
his teeth, said:

"If I were the governor, I would have your son hanged! Let him not
mislead the people!"

This vicious threat went through her like the chill blast of death.
She made no reply, glanced at his small, freckled face, and with a
sigh cast down her eyes.

She observed considerable agitation in the factory; the workmen
gathered in small groups and talked in an undertone, with great
animation; the foremen walked about with careworn faces, poking
their noses into everything; here and there were heard angry oaths
and irritated laughter.

Two policemen escorted Samoylov past her. He walked with one hand
in his pocket, the other smoothing his red hair.

A crowd of about a hundred workmen followed him, and plied the
policemen with oaths and banter.

"Going to take a promenade, Grisha?" shouted one.

"They do honor to us fellows!" chimed in another.

"When we go to promenading, we have a bodyguard to escort us," said
a third, and uttered a harsh oath.

"It does not seem to pay any longer to catch thieves!" exclaimed
a tall, one-eyed workingman in a loud, bitter voice. "So they take
to arresting honest people."

"They don't even do it at night!" broke in another. "They come
and drag them away in broad daylight, without shame, the impudent
scoundrels!"

The policemen walked on rapidly and sullenly, trying to avoid the
sight of the crowd, and feigning not to hear the angry exclamations
showered upon them from all sides. Three workmen carrying a big
iron bar happened to come in front of them, and thrusting the bar
against them, shouted:

"Look out there, fishermen!"

As he passed Nilovna, Samoylov nodded to her, and smiling, said:

"Behold, this is Gregory, the servant of God, being arrested."

She made a low bow to him in silence. These men, so young, sober,
and clever, who went to jail with a smile, moved her, and she
unconsciously felt for them the pitying affection of a mother. It
pleased her to hear the sharp comments leveled against the authorities.
She saw therein her son's influence.

Leaving the factory, she passed the remainder of the day at Marya's
house, assisting her in her work, and listening to her chatter.
Late in the evening she returned home and found it bare, chilly and
disagreeable. She moved about from corner to corner, unable to find
a resting place, and not knowing what to do with herself. Night was
fast approaching, and she grew worried, because Yegor Ivanovich had
not yet come and brought her the literature which he had promised.

Behind the window, gray, heavy flakes of spring snow fluttered and
settled softly and noiselessly upon the pane. Sliding down and
melting, they left a watery track in their course. The mother
thought of her son.

A cautious rap was heard. She rushed to the door, lifted the latch,
and admitted Sashenka. She had not seen her for a long while, and
the first thing that caught her eye was the girl's unnatural stoutness.

"Good evening!" she said, happy to have a visitor at such a time,
to relieve her solitude for a part of the night. "You haven't been
around for a long while! Were you away?"

"No, I was in prison," replied the girl, smiling, "with Nikolay
Ivanovich. Do you remember him?"

"I should think I do!" exclaimed the mother. "Yegor Ivanovich told
me yesterday that he had been released, but I knew nothing about
you. Nobody told me that you were there."

"What's the good of telling? I should like to change my dress
before Yegor Ivanovich comes!" said the girl, looking around.

"You are all wet."

"I've brought the booklets."

"Give them here, give them to me!" cried the mother impatiently.

"Directly," replied the girl. She untied her skirt and shook it,
and like leaves from a tree, down fluttered a lot of thin paper
parcels on the floor around her. The mother picked them up,
laughing, and said: