by Maxim Gorky
“‘Rise up, awake, you workingmen,’” Pavel sang softly.
As the day grew, the clouds dispersed, chased by the wind. The mother got the dishes ready for the tea, shaking her head over the thought of how strange it was for both of them to be joking and smiling all the time on this morning, when who knew what would befall them in the afternoon. Yet, curiously enough, she felt herself calm, almost happy.
They sat a long time over the tea to while away the hours of expectation. Pavel, as was his wont, slowly and scrupulously mixed the sugar in the glass with his spoon, and accurately salted his favorite crust from the end of the loaf. The Little Russian moved his feet under the table—he never could at once settle his feet comfortably—and looked at the rays of sunlight playing on the wall and ceiling.
“When I was a youngster of ten years,” he recounted, “I wanted to catch the sun in a glass. So I took the glass, stole to the wall, and bang! I cut my hand and got a licking to boot. After the licking I went out in the yard and saw the sun in a puddle. So I started to trample the mud with my feet. I covered myself with mud, and got another drubbing. What was I to do? I screamed to the sun: ‘It doesn’t hurt me, you red devil; it doesn’t hurt me!’ and stuck out my tongue at him. And I felt comforted.”
“Why did the sun seem red to you?” Pavel asked, laughing.
“There was a blacksmith opposite our house, with fine red cheeks, and a huge red beard. I thought the sun resembled him.”
The mother lost patience and said:
“You’d better talk about your arrangements for the procession.”
“Everything’s been arranged,” said Pavel.
“No use talking of things once decided upon. It only confuses the mind,” the Little Russian added. “If we are all arrested, Nikolay Ivanovich will come and tell you what to do. He will help you in every way.”
“All right,” said the mother with a heavy sigh.
“Let’s go out,” said Pavel dreamily.
“No, rather stay indoors,” replied Andrey. “No need to annoy the eyes of the police so often. They know you well enough.”
Fedya Mazin came running in, all aglow, with red spots on his cheeks, quivering with youthful joy. His animation dispelled the tedium of expectation for them.
“It’s begun!” he reported. “The people are all out on the street, their faces sharp as the edge of an ax. Vyesovshchikov, the Gusevs, and Samoylov have been standing at the factory gates all the time, and have been making speeches. Most of the people went back from the factory, and returned home. Let’s go! It’s just time! It’s ten o’clock already.”
“I’m going!” said Pavel decidedly.
“You’ll see,” Fedya assured them, “the whole factory will rise up after dinner.”
And he hurried away, followed by the quiet words of the mother:
“Burning like a wax candle in the wind.”
She rose and went into the kitchen to dress.
“Where are you going, mother?”
“With you,” she said.
Andrey looked at Pavel pulling his mustache. Pavel arranged his hair with a quick gesture, and went to his mother.
“Mother, I will not tell you anything; and don’t you tell me anything, either. Right, mother?”
“All right, all right! God bless you!” she murmured.
When she went out and heard the holiday hum of the people’s voices—an anxious and expectant hum—when she saw everywhere, at the gates and windows, crowds of people staring at Andrey and her son, a blur quivered before her eyes, changes from a transparent green to a muddy gray.
People greeted them—there was something peculiar in their greetings. She caught whispered, broken remarks:
“Here they are, the leaders!”
“We don’t know who the leaders are!”
“Why, I didn’t say anything wrong.”
At another place some one in a yard shouted excitedly:
“The police will get them, and that’ll be the end of them!”
“What if they do?” retorted another voice.
Farther on a crying woman’s voice leaped frightened from the window to the street:
“Consider! Are you a single man, are you? They are bachelors and don’t care!”
When they passed the house of Zosimov, the man without legs, who received a monthly allowance from the factory because of his mutilation, he stuck his head through the window and cried out:
“Pavel, you scoundrel, they’ll wring your head off for your doings, you’ll see!”
The mother trembled and stopped. The exclamation aroused in her a sharp sensation of anger. She looked up at the thick, bloated face of the cripple, and he hid himself, cursing. Then she quickened her pace, overtook her son, and tried not to fall behind again. He and Andrey seemed not to notice anything, not to hear the outcries that pursued them. They moved calmly, without haste, and talked loudly about commonplaces. They were stopped by Mironov, a modest, elderly man, respected by everybody for his clean, sober life.
“Not working either, Daniïl Ivanovich?” Pavel asked.
“My wife is going to be confined. Well, and such an exciting day, too,” Mironov responded, staring fixedly at the comrades. He said to them in an undertone:
“Boys, I hear you’re going to make an awful row—smash the superintendent’s windows.”
“Why, are we drunk?” exclaimed Pavel.
“We are simply going to march along the streets with flags, and sing songs,” said the Little Russian. “You’ll have a chance to hear our songs. They’re our confession of faith.”
“I know your confession of faith,” said Mironov thoughtfully. “I read your papers. You, Nilovna,” he exclaimed, smiling at the mother with knowing eyes, “are you going to revolt, too?”
“Well, even if it’s only before death, I want to walk shoulder to shoulder with the truth.”
“I declare!” said Mironov. “I guess they were telling the truth when they said you carried forbidden books to the factory.”
“Who said so?” asked Pavel.
“Oh, people. Well, good-by! Behave yourselves!”
The mother laughed softly; she was pleased to hear that such things were said of her. Pavel smilingly turned to her:
“Oh, you’ll get into prison, mother!”
“I don’t mind,” she murmured.
The sun rose higher, pouring warmth into the bracing freshness of the spring day. The clouds floated more slowly, their shadows grew thinner and more transparent, and crawled gently over the streets and roofs. The bright sunlight seemed to clean the village, to wipe the dust and dirt from the walls and the tedium from the faces. Everything assumed a more cheerful aspect; the voices sounded louder, drowning the far-off rumble and heavings of the factory machines.
Again, from all sides, from the windows and the yards, different words and voices, now uneasy and malicious, now thoughtful and gay, found their way to the mother’s ears. But this time she felt a desire to retort, to thank, to explain, to participate in the strangely variegated life of the day.
Off a corner of the main thoroughfare, in a narrow by-street, a crowd of about a hundred people had gathered, and from its depths resounded Vyesovshchikov’s voice:
“They squeeze our blood like juice from huckleberries.” His words fell like hammer blows on the people.
“That’s true!” the resonant cry rang out simultaneously from a number of throats.
“The boy is doing his best,” said the Little Russian. “I’ll go help him.” He bent low and before Pavel had time to stop him he twisted his tall, flexible body into the crowd like a corkscrew into a cork, and soon his singing voice rang out:
“Comrades! They say there are various races on the earth—Jews and Germans, English and Tartars. But I don’t believe it. There are only two nations, two irreconcilab
le tribes—the rich and the poor. People dress differently and speak differently; but look at the rich Frenchman, the rich German, or the rich Englishman, you’ll see that they are all Tartars in the way they treat their workingman—a plague on them!”
A laugh broke out in the crowd.
“On the other hand, we can see the French workingmen, the Tartar workingmen, the Turkish workingmen, all lead the same dog’s life, as we—we, the Russian workingmen.”
More and more people joined the crowd; one after the other they thronged into the by-street, silent, stepping on tiptoe, and craning their necks. Andrey raised his voice:
“The workingmen of foreign countries have already learned this simple truth, and today, on this bright first of May, the foreign working people fraternize with one another. They quit their work, and go out into the streets to look at themselves, to take stock of their immense power. On this day, the workingmen out there throb with one heart; for all hearts are lighted with the consciousness of the might of the working people; all hearts beat with comradeship, each and every one of them is ready to lay down his life in the war for the happiness of all, for freedom and truth to all—comrades!”
“The police!” some one shouted.
CHAPTER XIX
From the main street four mounted policemen flourishing their knouts came riding into the by-street directly at the crowd.
“Disperse!”
“What sort of talking is going on?”
“Who’s speaking?”
The people scowled, giving way to the horses unwillingly. Some climbed up on fences; raillery was heard here and there.
“They put pigs on horses; they grunt: ‘Here we are, leaders, too!’” resounded a sonorous, provoking voice.
The Little Russian was left alone in the middle of the street; two horses shaking their manes pressed at him. He stepped aside, and at the same time the mother grasped his hand, pulling him away grumbling:
“You promised to stick to Pasha; and here you are running up against the edge of a knife all by yourself.”
“I plead guilty,” said the Little Russian, smiling at Pavel. “Ugh! What a force of police there is in the world!”
“All right,” murmured the mother.
An alarming, crushing exhaustion came over her. It rose from within her and made her dizzy. There was a strange alternation of sadness and joy in her heart. She wished the afternoon whistle would sound.
They reached the square where the church stood. Around the church within the paling a thick crowd was sitting and standing. There were some five hundred gay youth and bustling women with children darting around the groups like butterflies. The crowd swung from side to side. The people raised their heads and looked into the distance in different directions, waiting impatiently.
“Mitenka!” softly vibrated a woman’s voice. “Have pity on yourself!”
“Stop!” rang out the response.
And the grave Sizov spoke calmly, persuasively:
“No, we mustn’t abandon our children. They have grown wiser than ourselves; they live more boldly. Who saved our cent for the marshes? They did. We must remember that. For doing it they were dragged to prison; but we derived the benefit. The benefit was for all.”
The whistle blew, drowning the talk of the crowd. The people started. Those sitting rose to their feet. For a moment the silence of death prevailed; all became watchful, and many faces grew pale.
“Comrades!” resounded Pavel’s voice, ringing and firm.
A dry, hot haze burned the mother’s eyes, and with a single movement of her body, suddenly strengthened, she stood behind her son. All turned toward Pavel, and drew up to him, like iron filings attracted by a magnet.
“Brothers! The hour has come to give up this life of ours, this life of greed, hatred, and darkness, this life of violence and falsehood, this life where there is no place for us, where we are no human beings.”
He stopped, and everybody maintained silence, moving still closer to him. The mother stared at her son. She saw only his eyes, his proud, brave, burning eyes.
“Comrades! We have decided to declare openly who we are; we raise our banner today, the banner of reason, of truth, of liberty! And now I raise it!”
A flag pole, white and slender, flashed in the air, bent down, cleaving the crowd. For a moment it was lost from sight; then over the uplifted faces the broad canvas of the working people’s flag spread its wings like a red bird.
Pavel raised his hand—the pole swung, and a dozen hands caught the smooth white rod. Among them was the mother’s hand.
“Long live the working people!” he shouted.
Hundreds of voices responded to his sonorous call.
“Long live the Social Democratic Workingmen’s Party, our party, comrades, our spiritual mother.”
The crowd seethed and hummed. Those who understood the meaning of the flag squeezed their way up to it. Mazin, Samoylov, and the Gusevs stood close at Pavel’s side. Nikolay with bent head pushed his way through the crowd. Some other people unknown to the mother, young and with burning eyes, jostled her.
“Long live the working people of all countries!” shouted Pavel.
And ever increasing in force and joy, a thousand-mouthed echo responded in a soul-stirring acclaim.
The mother clasped Pavel’s hand, and somebody else’s, too. She was breathless with tears, yet refrained from shedding them. Her legs trembled, and with quivering lips she cried:
“Oh, my dear boys, that’s true. There you are now—”
A broad smile spread over Nikolay’s pockmarked face; he stared at the flag and, stretching his hand toward it, roared out something; then caught the mother around the neck with the same hand, kissed her, and laughed.
“Comrades!” sang out the Little Russian, subduing the noise of the crowd with his mellow voice. “Comrades! We have now started a holy procession in the name of the new God, the God of Truth and Light, the God of Reason and Goodness. We march in this holy procession, comrades, over a long and hard road. Our goal is far, far away, and the crown of thorns is near! Those who don’t believe in the might of truth, who have not the courage to stand up for it even unto death, who do not believe in themselves and are afraid of suffering—such of you, step aside! We call upon those only who believe in our triumph. Those who cannot see our goal, let them not walk with us; only misery is in store for them! Fall into line, comrades! Long live the first of May, the holiday of freemen!”
The crowd drew closer. Pavel waved the flag. It spread out in the air and sailed forward, sunlit, smiling, red, and glowing.
“Let us renounce the old world!” resounded Fedya Mazin’s ringing voice; and scores of voices took up the cry. It floated as on a mighty wave.
“Let us shake its dust from our feet.”
The mother marched behind Mazin with a smile on her dry lips, and looked over his head at her son and the flag. Everywhere, around her, was the sparkle of fresh young cheerful faces, the glimmer of many-colored eyes; and at the head of all—her son and Andrey. She heard their voices, Andrey’s, soft and humid, mingled in friendly accord with the heavy bass of her son:
“Rise up, awake, you workingmen!
On, on, to war, you hungry hosts!”
Men ran toward the red flag, raising a clamor; then joining the others, they marched along, their shouts lost in the broad sounds of the song of the revolution.
The mother had heard that song before. It had often been sung in a subdued tone; and the Little Russian had often whistled it. But now she seemed for the first time to hear this appeal to unite in the struggle.
“We march to join our suffering mates.”
The song flowed on, embracing the people.
Some one’s face, alarmed yet joyous, moved along beside the mother’s, and a trembling voice spoke, sobbing:
“Mitya! Where are y
ou going?”
The mother interfered without stopping:
“Let him go! Don’t be alarmed! Don’t fear! I myself was afraid at first, too. Mine is right at the head—he who bears the standard—that’s my son!”
“Murderers! Where are you going? There are soldiers over there!” And suddenly clasping the mother’s hand in her bony hands, the tall, thin woman exclaimed: “My dear! How they sing! Oh, the sectarians! And Mitya is singing!”
“Don’t be troubled!” murmured the mother. “It’s a sacred thing. Think of it! Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn’t perished for his sake.”
This thought had flashed across the mother’s mind all of a sudden and struck her by its simple, clear truth. She stared at the woman, who held her hand firmly in her clasp, and repeated, smiling:
“Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn’t suffered for his sake.”
Sizov appeared at her side. He took off his hat and waving it to the measure of the song, said:
“They’re marching openly, eh, mother? And composed a song, too! What a song, mother, eh?”
“The Czar for the army soldiers must have,
Then give him your sons—”
“They’re not afraid of anything,” said Sizov. “And my son is in the grave. The factory crushed him to death, yes!”
The mother’s heart beat rapidly, and she began to lag behind. She was soon pushed aside hard against a fence, and the close-packed crowd went streaming past her. She saw that there were many people, and she was pleased.
“Rise up, awake, you workingmen!”
It seemed as if the blare of a mighty brass trumpet were rousing men and stirring in some hearts the willingness to fight, in other hearts a vague joy, a premonition of something new, and a burning curiosity; in still others a confused tremor of hope and curiosity. The song was an outlet, too, for the stinging bitterness accumulated during years.
The people looked ahead, where the red banner was swinging and streaming in the air. All were saying something and shouting; but the individual voice was lost in the song—the new song, in which the old note of mournful meditation was absent. It was not the utterance of a soul wandering in solitude along the dark paths of melancholy perplexity, of a soul beaten down by want, burdened with fear, deprived of individuality, and colorless. It breathed no sighs of a strength hungering for space; it shouted no provoking cries of irritated courage ready to crush both the good and the bad indiscriminately. It did not voice the elemental instinct of the animal to snatch freedom for freedom’s sake, nor the feeling of wrong or vengeance capable of destroying everything and powerless to build up anything. In this song there was nothing from the old, slavish world. It floated along directly, evenly; it proclaimed an iron virility, a calm threat. Simple, clear, it swept the people after it along an endless path leading to the far distant future; and it spoke frankly about the hardships of the way. In its steady fire a heavy clod seemed to burn and melt—the sufferings they had endured, the dark load of their habitual feelings, their cursed dread of what was coming.
