Mother

by Maxim Gorky

  Sometimes the image of her son would grow before her to the size of the hero of a fairy tale, and in it were united all the honest, brave words she had heard, all the people she liked, everything heroic and bright that she knew. Then, touched, proud and in quiet rapture, she feasted her eyes on it and thought, full of hope:

  “Everything will be fine, everything!”

  Her love, a mother’s love, would flare up, squeezing her heart so tight it almost hurt, but then the maternal would hinder the growth of the human, it would burn it up, and in the grey ash of anxiety, instead of a great feeling a doleful thought would timidly beat:

  “He’s going to perish… be done for!…”

  XIV

  At noon she was sitting opposite Pavel in the prison office, examining his bearded face through the mist in her eyes, looking for an opportunity to pass him the note she was squeezing tightly between her fingers.

  “I’m well, as is everyone else,” he said in a low voice. “And how are you?”

  “All right! Yegor Ivanovich has passed away!” she said mechanically.

  “Really?” Pavel exclaimed, and quietly lowered his head.

  “The police were fighting at the funeral and one man was arrested!” she continued artlessly. The Assistant Prison Governor smacked his thin lips in indignation, leapt up from his chair and mumbled:

  “That’s forbidden, you’ve got to understand it! Talking about politics is forbidden!…”

  The mother got up from her chair as well and, as though not understanding, declared guiltily:

  “I’m not talking about politics, but about a fight! And they did fight, it’s true. And they even cracked someone’s head open…”

  “It doesn’t matter! I must ask you to be quiet! That’s to say, to be quiet about everything that doesn’t concern you personally, the family or, generally, your home!”

  Sensing he had got himself in a tangle, he sat down at a desk and, sorting through some papers, added in a doleful, weary voice:

  “I’m responsible, and…”

  The mother looked round and, quickly thrusting the note into Pavel’s hand, heaved a sigh of relief:

  “You don’t know what to talk about…”

  Pavel grinned.

  “I don’t know either…”

  “Then you don’t need the visits!” the official remarked irritably. “There’s nothing to talk about, but they come and cause trouble anyway…”

  “Will the trial be soon?” the mother asked after a pause.

  “The Public Prosecutor was here the other day and said it would…”

  They spoke insignificant words to one another that neither needed, but the mother could see that Pavel’s eyes were looking into her face gently and lovingly. Still just as equable and calm as ever, he had not changed, only his beard had grown a lot, making him look older, and his wrists had become whiter. She felt a desire to do something that would please him, to tell him about Nikolai, and without altering her voice, in the same tone she had been using to say unnecessary and uninteresting things, she continued:

  “I saw your godson…”

  Pavel looked her intently in the eye, silently enquiring. Meaning to remind him of Vesovshchikov’s pockmarked face, she tapped a finger on her cheek…

  “The boy’s all right, he’s alive and well and he’ll soon be getting a job.”

  Her son understood, nodded his head to her and, with a merry smile in his eyes, replied:

  “That’s good!”

  “There you are, then!” she pronounced with satisfaction, pleased with herself and touched by his joy.

  Saying goodbye to her, he gave her hand a tight squeeze.

  “Thank you, Mother!”

  A joyful sense of warm intimacy with him went to her head like alcohol, and, lacking the strength to answer in words, she answered with a silent handshake.

  At home she found Sasha. The girl usually came to see Nilovna on the days when the mother was on a visit. She never asked about Pavel, and if the mother herself did not talk about him, Sasha would look intently into her face and content herself with that. But now she greeted her with a troubled question:

  “Well, how is he?”

  “All right, he’s well!”

  “Did you give him the note?”

  “Of course! I passed it so cleverly…”

  “Did he read it?”

  “But where? How could he?”

  “Yes, I forgot!” the girl said slowly. “We’ll wait another week, another week! And what do you think – will he agree?”

  She knitted her brows and looked into the mother’s face with fixed eyes.

  “I just don’t know,” the mother pondered. “Why not leave, if it’s without danger?”

  Sasha tossed her head and asked drily:

  “Do you know what the patient can eat? He’s asking for food.”

  “He can have anything, anything! I’ll just be a moment…”

  She went into the kitchen. Sasha moved slowly after her.

  “Can I help?”

  “There’s no need, thank you!”

  The mother bent down to the stove, getting out a pot. The girl said to her quietly:

  “Wait…”

  Her face was pale, her eyes mournfully wide, and only with an effort did her trembling lips begin whispering, quickly and ardently:

  “I want to ask something of you. I know he won’t agree! Persuade him! He’s needed, tell him he’s essential to the cause, that I’m afraid he’ll be taken ill. You can see – the date for the trial still hasn’t been set…”

  It was evidently hard for her to speak. She had drawn her whole body up straight, she was looking away to the side and her voice sounded uneven. With her eyelids lowered wearily, the girl was biting her lips, and the fingers of her tightly clenched fists were cracking.

  The mother was ruffled by this outburst, but she could understand it and, agitated, filled with a feeling of sadness, she put her arms around Sasha and quietly replied:

  “My dear girl! He won’t listen to anyone other than himself, not anyone!”

  They were both silent, pressing tightly against one another. Then Sasha carefully removed the mother’s arms from her shoulders and said with a shudder:

  “Yes, you’re right! It’s all silliness, nerves…”

  And suddenly serious, she concluded simply:

  “Anyway, let’s feed the casualty…”

  Sitting by Ivan’s bed, she was already asking, solicitous and gentle:

  “Does your head hurt a lot?”

  “Not really, only everything’s confused! And I feel weak,” Ivan replied, bashfully pulling his blanket up to his chin and screwing up his eyes, as though there were a bright light. Noticing he could not bring himself to eat in front of her, Sasha got up and left.

  Ivan sat up on the bed, followed her with his gaze and, blinking, said:

  “Be-eautiful!…”

  His eyes were bright and merry, his teeth small and close set, and his voice not yet fully broken.

  “How old are you?” the mother asked pensively.

  “Seventeen.”

  “And where are your parents?”

  “In the country; I’ve been here since I was ten, I finished school and came straight here! And what’s your name, comrade?”

  The mother was always amused and touched by this word when it was addressed to her. And now, smiling, she asked:

  “What do you need to know that for?”

  After an embarrassed pause the youth explained:

  “You see, a student from our group – that’s to say, who used to read with us – he told us about the mother of Pavel Vlasov, the worker – you know, the May Day demonstration?”

  She nodded her head and pricked up her ears.

  “He was the first
one to raise the banner of our party openly!” the youth declared with pride, and his pride struck a chord in the mother’s heart.

  “I wasn’t there at the time, we were planning to arrange our own demonstration here then, but it fell through! There weren’t enough of us then. But next year, do come along!… You’ll see!”

  He choked in the excitement of looking forward to future events, and then, waving his spoon in the air, he continued:

  “Well then, Vlasova, I’m saying, the mother. She came into the party too after that. They say she’s such a woman – it’s simply wonderful!”

  The mother smiled broadly – it was nice for her to hear the boy’s rapturous praise. Nice, but awkward. She even wanted to say to him: “I’m Vlasova!”, but she restrained herself and, with gentle mockery, with sadness, she said to herself: “Oh dear, you silly old fool!…”

  “You must eat more! Get well quickly for the good cause!” she said, suddenly agitated and bending towards him.

  The door opened, there was the smell of damp, autumnal cold, and in came Sofia, rosy and merry.

  “There are spies courting me like suitors after a wealthy young girl, honestly! I need to clear out of here… Well, Vanya, how are you? All right? How’s Pavel, Nilovna? Is Sasha here?”

  Lighting up a cigarette, she asked without expecting replies, caressing the mother and the youth with the gaze of her grey eyes. The mother looked at her and, smiling inwardly, thought:

  “Here am I mixing with good people too!”

  And bending towards Ivan again, she said:

  “Get well, my son!”

  And she went off into the dining room. There Sofia was telling Sasha:

  “She’s already got three hundred copies ready! She’ll kill herself working like this! That’s heroism! You know, Sasha, it’s a great joy to live among such people, to be their comrade and work with them…”

  “Yes!” the girl replied quietly.

  Over tea in the evening Sofia said to the mother:

  “You need to go out into the country again, Nilovna.”

  “All right! When?”

  “In three days or so – can you do that?”

  “Very well…”

  “You should ride,” Nikolai advised in a low voice. “Hire post horses, and please go by a different route, through the Nikolskoye volost…”*

  He fell silent and frowned. This did not suit his face, changing his always serene expression in a strange and unattractive way.

  “It’s a long way through Nikolskoye!” the mother remarked. “And expensive using horses…”

  “You see, the thing is,” Nikolai continued, “I’m completely against this trip. There’s unrest out there, there have already been arrests, some teacher has been taken and we need to be careful. We ought to bide our time…”

  Tapping her fingers on the table, Sofia remarked:

  “It’s important that we maintain continuity in the distribution of literature. You’re not afraid to go, are you, Nilovna?” she asked suddenly.

  The mother was stung.

  “When was I ever afraid? I did it the first time without fear… and now suddenly…” Without finishing the phrase, she lowered her head. Every time she was asked if she was afraid, if it was convenient for her, if she could do this or that, she heard in such questions a request being addressed to her, and it seemed to her that people were distancing her from themselves, shifting her aside and treating her differently to the way they did each other.

  “You’re wrong to ask me if I’m afraid,” she said with a sigh. “You don’t ask each other about fear.”

  Nikolai hurriedly removed his glasses, put them on again and looked intently into his sister’s face. The embarrassed silence alarmed Vlasova, and she rose from her chair guiltily, wanting to say something to them, but Sofia reached out and touched her hand and uttered a quiet request:

  “Forgive me! I won’t do it again!”

  This made the mother laugh, and a few minutes later all three were talking anxiously and amicably about the trip out into the country.

  XV

  At dawn the mother was shaking in a post chaise along a road turned to mud by the autumn rain. A damp wind was blowing, splashes of mud were flying about and the driver, sitting half-turned towards her on his seat, was complaining pensively in a nasal voice:

  “I says to him, my brother, that is, well then, let’s share things out! And that’s what we started to do…”

  He suddenly whipped the left-hand horse and shouted with animosity:

  “Gee up! Get on, you son of a witch!…”

  The fat crows of autumn were pacing preoccupied over the bare, ploughed fields, and the wind came swooping down on them, whistling coldly. The crows would turn their sides to the wind’s buffeting, and it would blow their feathers about, knocking them off their feet, so then, yielding to its strength, with lazy flaps of their wings they would fly away to some other spot.

  “Well, and he did me out of my fair share. And I can see there’s nothing I can do about it,” said the driver.

  The mother heard his words as if in a dream, as her memory constructed before her the long series of events that had been lived through in recent years and, going over them again, she saw herself everywhere. Previously life had been shaped somewhere far away by who knows who and why, but now a lot was being done before her very eyes, with her help. And this aroused in her a tangled sense of distrust of and satisfaction with herself, bewilderment and quiet sadness…

  Everything all around was rocking in slow motion: there were grey clouds drifting in the sky and ponderously overtaking one another, wet trees shaking their naked tops could be glimpsed down the sides of the roads, there were fields spread out all around, and hills rose up into the air, then became diffused.

  The nasal voice of the driver, the ringing of the carriage bells and the damp whistling and hissing of the wind merged into a flickering, sinuous stream, and it flowed over the fields with monotonous power…

  “Heaven itself’s too small for a rich man – that’s the way of it!… He started reaping, and the authorities became his friends,” drawled the coachman, rocking on his seat.

  When they arrived at the posting station, he unharnessed the horses and said to the mother in a hopeless voice:

  “You might let me have five copecks – I could at least have a drink!”

  The mother gave him a coin, and, tossing it on his palm, in the same tone of voice, the driver informed her:

  “Three to spend on a drop of vodka, two on a bit of bread…”

  After midday, worn out and frozen through, the mother arrived in the big village of Nikolskoye, went into the posting station, asked for some tea and took a seat at a window, putting her heavy suitcase down under the bench. Visible from the window was a small square, covered in a trampled carpet of yellow grass, and the building of the volost board, dark-grey and with a sagging roof. On the building’s porch sat a bald-headed, long-bearded peasant in shirtsleeves, smoking a pipe. A pig was walking across the grass. Twitching its ears discontentedly, it was poking its snout into the ground and occasionally shaking its head.

  Storm clouds were drifting in dark masses, piling up on top of one another. It was quiet, murky and dreary, and life seemed to have hidden away somewhere, to have concealed itself.

  Suddenly the village constable galloped into the square, reined in his chestnut horse by the porch of the volost-board building and, brandishing his whip in the air, shouted at the peasant. His cries beat against the window panes, but the words were inaudible. The peasant stood up and reached out an arm, pointing into the distance; the constable jumped to the ground, swayed on his feet, tossed the reins to the peasant as he grabbed with his hands at the handrail, went ponderously up onto the porch and disappeared through the volost board’s doors…

  Again it grew quiet. The horse
twice beat a hoof against the soft ground. Into the room came a teenaged girl with a short yellow plait on the back of her head and gentle eyes in her round face. On outstretched arms she was carrying a large tray with battered edges filled with crockery, and she was biting her lips and bowing with frequent nods of her head.

  “Hello, good girl!” said the mother affectionately.

  “Hello!”

  While setting out the plates and tea service on the table, the girl suddenly announced excitedly:

  “They’ve just caught a robber, they’re bringing him here!”

  “What robber’s that?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Well, what’s he done?”

  “I don’t know!” the girl repeated. “I only heard they’d caught him! The watchman from the volost board has run to fetch the district superintendent.”

  The mother looked out of the window, and some peasants had appeared in the square. Some were walking slowly and steadily, others were hurriedly doing up their sheepskin coats as they walked. Stopping by the volost board’s porch, everybody was looking somewhere away to the left.

  The girl glanced outside and then ran from the room, noisily slamming the door. The mother winced, moved her suitcase farther under the bench and, throwing her shawl over her head, set off towards the door, hurrying and yet containing the incomprehensible desire that had suddenly taken hold of her to walk quickly, to run…