The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  Pavel walked up and down the room.

  “Well, now you know what I am doing and where I am going. I told you all. I beg of you, mother, if you love me, do not hinder me!”

  “My darling, my beloved!” she cried, “maybe it would be better for me not to have known anything!”

  He took her hand and pressed it firmly in his. The word “mother,” pronounced by him with feverish emphasis, and that clasp of the hand so new and strange, moved her.

  “I will do nothing!” she said in a broken voice. “Only be on your guard! Be on your guard!” Not knowing what he should be on his guard against, nor how to warn him, she added mournfully: “You are getting so thin.”

  And with a look of affectionate warmth, which seemed to embrace his firm, well-shaped body, she said hastily, and in a low voice:

  “God be with you! Live as you want to. I will not hinder you. One thing only I beg of you—do not speak to people unguardedly! You must be on the watch with people; they all hate one another. They live in greed and envy; all are glad to do injury; people persecute out of sheer amusement. When you begin to accuse them and to judge them, they will hate you, and will hound you to destruction!”

  Pavel stood in the doorway listening to the melancholy speech, and when the mother had finished he said with a smile:

  “Yes, people are sorry creatures; but when I came to recognize that there is truth in the world, people became better.” He smiled again and added: “I do not know how it happened myself! From childhood I feared everybody; as I grew up I began to hate everybody, some for their meanness, others—well, I do not know why—just so! And now I see all the people in a different way. I am grieved for them all! I cannot understand it; but my heart turned softer when I recognized that there is truth in men, and that not all are to blame for their foulness and filth.”

  He was silent as if listening to something within himself. Then he said in a low voice and thoughtfully:

  “That’s how truth lives.”

  She looked at him tenderly.

  “May God protect you!” she sighed. “It is a dangerous change that has come upon you.”

  When he had fallen asleep, the mother rose carefully from her bed and came gently into her son’s room. Pavel’s swarthy, resolute, stern face was clearly outlined against the white pillow. Pressing her hand to her bosom, the mother stood at his bedside. Her lips moved mutely, and great tears rolled down her cheeks.

  CHAPTER III

  Again they lived in silence, distant and yet near to each other. Once, in the middle of the week, on a holiday, as he was preparing to leave the house he said to his mother:

  “I expect some people here on Saturday.”

  “What people?” she asked.

  “Some people from our village, and others from the city.”

  “From the city?” repeated the mother, shaking her head. And suddenly she broke into sobs.

  “Now, mother, why this?” cried Pavel resentfully. “What for?”

  Drying her face with her apron, she answered quietly:

  “I don’t know, but it is the way I feel.”

  He paced up and down the room, then halting before her, said:

  “Are you afraid?”

  “I am afraid,” she acknowledged. “Those people from the city—who knows them?”

  He bent down to look in her face, and said in an offended tone, and, it seemed to her, angrily, like his father:

  “This fear is what is the ruin of us all. And some dominate us; they take advantage of our fear and frighten us still more. Mark this: as long as people are afraid, they will rot like the birches in the marsh. We must grow bold; it is time!

  “It’s all the same,” he said, as he turned from her; “they’ll meet in my house, anyway.”

  “Don’t be angry with me!” the mother begged sadly. “How can I help being afraid? All my life I have lived in fear!”

  “Forgive me!” was his gentler reply, “but I cannot do otherwise,” and he walked away.

  For three days her heart was in a tremble, sinking in fright each time she remembered that strange people were soon to come to her house. She could not picture them to herself, but it seemed to her they were terrible people. It was they who had shown her son the road he was going.

  On Saturday night Pavel came from the factory, washed himself, put on clean clothes, and when walking out of the house said to his mother without looking at her:

  “When they come, tell them I’ll be back soon. Let them wait a while. And please don’t be afraid. They are people like all other people.”

  She sank into her seat almost fainting.

  Her son looked at her soberly. “Maybe you’d better go away somewhere,” he suggested.

  The thought offended her. Shaking her head in dissent, she said:

  “No, it’s all the same. What for?”

  It was the end of November. During the day a dry, fine snow had fallen upon the frozen earth, and now she heard it crunching outside the window under her son’s feet as he walked away. A dense crust of darkness settled immovably upon the window panes, and seemed to lie in hostile watch for something. Supporting herself on the bench, the mother sat and waited, looking at the door.

  It seemed to her that people were stealthily and watchfully walking about the house in the darkness, stooping and looking about on all sides, strangely attired and silent. There around the house some one was already coming, fumbling with his hands along the wall.

  A whistle was heard. It circled around like the notes of a fine chord, sad and melodious, wandered musingly into the wilderness of darkness, and seemed to be searching for something. It came nearer. Suddenly it died away under the window, as if it had entered into the wood of the wall. The noise of feet was heard on the porch. The mother started, and rose with a strained, frightened look in her eyes.

  The door opened. At first a head with a big, shaggy hat thrust itself into the room; then a slender, bending body crawled in, straightened itself out, and deliberately raised its right hand.

  “Good evening!” said the man, in a thick, bass voice, breathing heavily.

  The mother bowed in silence.

  “Pavel is not at home yet?”

  The stranger leisurely removed his short fur jacket, raised one foot, whipped the snow from his boot with his hat, then did the same with the other foot, flung his hat into a corner, and rocking on his thin legs walked into the room, looking back at the imprints he left on the floor. He approached the table, examined it as if to satisfy himself of its solidity, and finally sat down and, covering his mouth with his hand, yawned. His head was perfectly round and close-cropped, his face shaven except for a thin mustache, the ends of which pointed downward.

  After carefully scrutinizing the room with his large, gray, protuberant eyes, he crossed his legs, and, leaning his head over the table, inquired:

  “Is this your own house, or do you rent it?”

  The mother, sitting opposite him, answered:

  “We rent it.”

  “Not a very fine house,” he remarked.

  “Pasha will soon be here; wait,” said the mother quietly.

  “Why, yes, I am waiting,” said the man.

  His calmness, his deep, sympathetic voice, and the candor and simplicity of his face encouraged the mother. He looked at her openly and kindly, and a merry sparkle played in the depths of his transparent eyes. In the entire angular, stooping figure, with its thin legs, there was something comical, yet winning. He was dressed in a blue shirt, and dark, loose trousers thrust into his boots. She was seized with the desire to ask him who he was, whence he came, and whether he had known her son long. But suddenly he himself put a question, leaning forward with a swing of his whole body.

  “Who made that hole in your forehead, mother?”

  His question was uttered in a kind voice and
with a noticeable smile in his eyes; but the woman was offended by the sally. She pressed her lips together tightly, and after a pause rejoined with cold civility:

  “And what business is it of yours, sir?”

  With the same swing of his whole body toward her, he said:

  “Now, don’t get angry! I ask because my foster mother had her head smashed just exactly like yours. It was her man who did it for her once, with a last—he was a shoemaker, you see. She was a washerwoman and he was a shoemaker. It was after she had taken me as her son that she found him somewhere, a drunkard, and married him, to her great misfortune. He beat her—I tell you, my skin almost burst with terror.”

  The mother felt herself disarmed by his openness. Moreover, it occurred to her that perhaps her son would be displeased with her harsh reply to this odd personage. Smiling guiltily she said:

  “I am not angry, but—you see—you asked so very soon. It was my good man, God rest his soul! who treated me to the cut. Are you a Tartar?”

  The stranger stretched out his feet, and smiled so broad a smile that the ends of his mustache traveled to the nape of his neck. Then he said seriously:

  “Not yet. I’m not a Tartar yet.”

  “I asked because I rather thought the way you spoke was not exactly Russian,” she explained, catching his joke.

  “I am better than a Russian, I am!” said the guest laughingly. “I am a Little Russian from the city of Kanyev.”

  “And have you been here long?”

  “I lived in the city about a month, and I came to your factory about a month ago. I found some good people, your son and a few others. I will live here for a while,” he said, twirling his mustache.

  The man pleased the mother, and, yielding to the impulse to repay him in some way for his kind words about her son, she questioned again:

  “Maybe you’d like to have a glass of tea?”

  “What! An entertainment all to myself!” he answered, raising his shoulders. “I’ll wait for the honor until we are all here.”

  This allusion to the coming of others recalled her fear to her.

  “If they all are only like this one!” was her ardent wish.

  Again steps were heard on the porch. The door opened quickly, and the mother rose. This time she was taken completely aback by the newcomer in her kitchen—a poorly and lightly dressed girl of medium height, with the simple face of a peasant woman, and a head of thick, dark hair. Smiling she said in a low voice:

  “Am I late?”

  “Why, no!” answered the Little Russian, looking out of the living room. “Come on foot?”

  “Of course! Are you the mother of Pavel Vlasov? Good evening! My name is Natasha.”

  “And your other name?” inquired the mother.

  “Vasilyevna. And yours?”

  “Pelagueya Nilovna.”

  “So here we are all acquainted.”

  “Yes,” said the mother, breathing more easily, as if relieved, and looking at the girl with a smile.

  The Little Russian helped her off with her cloak, and inquired:

  “Is it cold?”

  “Out in the open, very! The wind—goodness!”

  Her voice was musical and clear, her mouth small and smiling, her body round and vigorous. Removing her wraps, she rubbed her ruddy cheeks briskly with her little hands, red with the cold, and walking lightly and quickly she passed into the room, the heels of her shoes rapping sharply on the floor.

  “She goes without overshoes,” the mother noted silently.

  “Indeed it is cold,” repeated the girl. “I’m frozen through—ooh!”

  “I’ll warm up the samovar for you!” the mother said, bustling and solicitous. “Ready in a moment,” she called from the kitchen.

  Somehow it seemed to her she had known the girl long, and even loved her with the tender, compassionate love of a mother. She was glad to see her; and recalling her guest’s bright blue eyes, she smiled contentedly, as she prepared the samovar and listened to the conversation in the room.

  “Why so gloomy, Nakhodka?” asked the girl.

  “The widow has good eyes,” answered the Little Russian. “I was thinking maybe my mother has such eyes. You know, I keep thinking of her as alive.”

  “You said she was dead?”

  “That’s my adopted mother. I am speaking now of my real mother. It seems to me that perhaps she may be somewhere in Kiev begging alms and drinking whisky.”

  “Why do you think such awful things?”

  “I don’t know. And the policemen pick her up on the street drunk and beat her.”

  “Oh, you poor soul,” thought the mother, and sighed.

  Natasha muttered something hotly and rapidly; and again the sonorous voice of the Little Russian was heard.

  “Ah, you are young yet, comrade,” he said. “You haven’t eaten enough onions yet. Everyone has a mother, none the less people are bad. For although it is hard to rear children, it is still harder to teach a man to be good.”

  “What strange ideas he has,” the mother thought, and for a moment she felt like contradicting the Little Russian and telling him that here was she who would have been glad to teach her son good, but knew nothing herself. The door, however, opened and in came Nikolay Vyesovshchikov, the son of the old thief Daniel, known in the village as a misanthrope. He always kept at a sullen distance from people, who retaliated by making sport of him.

  “You, Nikolay! How’s that?” she asked in surprise.

  Without replying he merely looked at the mother with his little gray eyes, and wiped his pockmarked, high-cheeked face with the broad palm of his hand.

  “Is Pavel at home?” he asked hoarsely.

  “No.”

  He looked into the room and said:

  “Good evening, comrades.”

  “He, too. Is it possible?” wondered the mother resentfully, and was greatly surprised to see Natasha put her hand out to him in a kind, glad welcome.

  The next to come were two young men, scarcely more than boys. One of them the mother knew. He was Yakob, the son of the factory watchman, Somov. The other, with a sharp-featured face, high forehead, and curly hair, was unknown to her; but he, too, was not terrible.

  Finally Pavel appeared, and with him two men, both of whose faces she recognized as those of workmen in the factory.

  “You’ve prepared the samovar! That’s fine. Thank you!” said Pavel as he saw what his mother had done.

  “Perhaps I should get some vodka,” she suggested, not knowing how to express her gratitude to him for something which as yet she did not understand.

  “No, we don’t need it!” he responded, removing his coat and smiling affectionately at her.

  It suddenly occurred to her that her son, by way of jest, had purposely exaggerated the danger of the gathering.

  “Are these the ones they call illegal people?” she whispered.

  “The very ones!” answered Pavel, and passed into the room.

  She looked lovingly after him and thought to herself condescendingly:

  “Mere children!”

  When the samovar boiled, and she brought it into the room, she found the guests sitting in a close circle around the table, and Natasha installed in the corner under the lamp with a book in her hands.

  “In order to understand why people live so badly,” said Natasha.

  “And why they are themselves so bad,” put in the Little Russian.

  “It is necessary to see how they began to live—”

  “See, my dears, see!” mumbled the mother, making the tea.

  They all stopped talking.

  “What is the matter, mother?” asked Pavel, knitting his brows.

  “What?” She looked around, and seeing the eyes of all upon her she explained with embarrassment, “I was just speaking to myself.
”

  Natasha laughed and Pavel smiled, but the Little Russian said: “Thank you for the tea, mother.”

  “Hasn’t drunk it yet and thanks me already,” she commented inwardly. Looking at her son, she asked: “I am not in your way?”

  “How can the hostess in her own home be in the way of her guests?” replied Natasha, and then continuing with childish plaintiveness: “Mother dear, give me tea quick! I am shivering with cold; my feet are all frozen.”

  “In a moment, in a moment!” exclaimed the mother, hurrying.

  Having drunk a cup of tea, Natasha drew a long breath, brushed her hair back from her forehead, and began to read from a large yellow-covered book with pictures. The mother, careful not to make a noise with the dishes, poured tea into the glasses, and strained her untrained mind to listen to the girl’s fluent reading. The melodious voice blended with the thin, musical hum of the samovar. The clear, simple narrative of savage people who lived in caves and killed the beasts with stones floated and quivered like a dainty ribbon in the room. It sounded like a tale, and the mother looked up to her son occasionally, wishing to ask him what was illegal in the story about wild men. But she soon ceased to follow the narrative and began to scrutinize the guests, unnoticed by them or her son.

  Pavel sat at Natasha’s side. He was the handsomest of them all. Natasha bent down very low over the book. At times she tossed back the thin curls that kept running down over her forehead, and lowered her voice to say something not in the book, with a kind look at the faces of her auditors. The Little Russian bent his broad chest over a corner of the table, and squinted his eyes in the effort to see the worn ends of his mustache, which he constantly twirled. Vyesovshchikov sat on his chair straight as a pole, his palms resting on his knees, and his pockmarked face, browless and thin-lipped, immobile as a mask. He kept his narrow-eyed gaze stubbornly fixed upon the reflection of his face in the glittering brass of the samovar. He seemed not even to breathe. Little Somov moved his lips mutely, as if repeating to himself the words in the book; and his curly-haired companion, with bent body, elbows on knees, his face supported on his hands, smiled abstractedly. One of the men who had entered at the same time as Pavel, a slender young chap with red, curly hair and merry green eyes, apparently wanted to say something; for he kept turning around impatiently. The other, light-haired and closely cropped, stroked his head with his hand and looked down on the floor so that his face remained invisible.