by Maxim Gorky
* * * *
Late at night he sat in a little room of a basement at a table opposite Vyesovshchikov. He said in a subdued tone, knitting his brows:
“On the middle window, four times.”
“Four.”
“At first three times like this”—he counted aloud as he tapped thrice on the table with his forefinger. “Then waiting a little, once again.”
“I understand.”
“A red-haired peasant will open the door for you, and will ask you for the midwife. You’ll tell him, ‘Yes, from the boss.’ Nothing else. He’ll understand your business.”
They sat with heads bent toward each other, both robust fellows, conversing in half tones. The mother, with her arms folded on her bosom, stood at the table looking at them. All the secret tricks and passwords compelled her to smile inwardly as she thought, “Mere children still.”
A lamp burned on the wall, illuminating a dark spot of dampness and pictures from journals. On the floor old pails were lying around, fragments of slate iron. A large, bright star out in the high darkness shone into the window. The odor of mildew, paint, and damp earth filled the room.
Ignaty was dressed in a thick autumn overcoat of shaggy material. It pleased him; the mother observed how he stroked it admiringly with the palm of his hand, how he looked at himself, clumsily turning his powerful neck. Her bosom beat tenderly with, “My dears, my children, my own.”
“There!” said Ignaty, rising. “You’ll remember, then? First you go to Muratov and ask for grandfather.”
“I remember.”
But Ignaty was still distrustful of Nikolay’s memory, and reiterated all the instructions, words, and signs, and finally extended his hand to him, saying:
“That’s all now. Good-by, comrade. Give my regards to them. I’m alive and strong. The people there are good—you’ll see.” He cast a satisfied glance down at himself, stroked the overcoat, and asked the mother, “Shall I go?”
“Can you find the way?”
“Yes. Good-by, then, dear comrades.”
He walked off, raising his shoulders high, thrusting out his chest, with his new hat cocked to one side, and his hands deep in his pockets in most dignified fashion. On his forehead and temples his bright, boyish curls danced gayly.
“There, now, I have work, too,” said Vyesovshchikov, going over to the mother quietly. “I’m bored already—jumped out of prison—what for? My only occupation is hiding—and there I was learning. Pavel so pressed your brains—it was one pure delight. And Andrey, too, polished us fellows zealously. Well, Nilovna, did you hear how they decided in regard to the escape? Will they arrange it?”
“They’ll find out day after tomorrow,” she repeated, sighing involuntarily. “One day still—day after tomorrow.”
Laying his heavy hand on her shoulder, and bringing his face close to hers, Nikolay said animatedly:
“You tell them, the older ones there—they’ll listen to you. Why, it’s very easy. You just see for yourself. There’s the wall of the prison near the lamp-post; opposite is an empty lot, on the left the cemetery, on the right the streets—the city. The lamplighter goes to the lamp-post; by day he cleans the lamp; he puts the ladder against the wall, climbs up, screws hooks for a rope ladder onto the top of the wall, lets the rope ladder down into the prison yard, and off he goes. There inside the walls they know the time when this will be done, and will ask the criminals to arrange an uproar, or they’ll arrange it themselves, and those who need it will go up the ladder over the wall—one, two, it’s done. And they calmly proceed to the city because the chase throws itself first of all on the vacant lot and the cemetery.”
He gesticulated rapidly in front of the mother’s face, drawing his plan, the details of which were clear, simple, and clever. She had known him as a clumsy fellow, and it was strange to her to see the pockmarked face with the high cheek bones, usually so gloomy, now lively and alert. The narrow gray eyes, formerly harsh and cold, looking at the world sullenly with malice and distrust, seemed to be chiseled anew, assuming an oval form and shining with an even, warm light that convinced and moved the mother.
“You think of it—by day, without fail by day. To whom would it occur that a prisoner would make up his mind to escape by day in the eyes of the whole prison?”
“And they’ll shoot him down,” the woman said trembling.
“Who? There are no soldiers, and the overseers of the prison use their revolvers to drive nails in.”
“Why, it’s very simple—all this.”
“And you’ll see it’ll all come out all right. No. You speak to them. I have everything prepared already—the rope ladder, the screw hooks; I spoke to my host, he’ll be the lamplighter.”
Somebody stirred noisily at the door and coughed, and iron clanked.
“There he is!” exclaimed Nikolay.
At the open door a tin bathtub was thrust in, and a hoarse voice said:
“Get in, you devil.”
Then a round, gray, hatless head appeared. It had protruding eyes and a mustache, and wore a good-natured expression. Nikolay helped the man in with the tub. A tall, stooping figure strode through the door. The man coughed, his shaven cheeks puffing up; he spat out and greeted hoarsely:
“Good health to you!”
“There! Ask him!”
“Me? What about?”
“About the escape.”
“Ah, ah!” said the host, wiping his mustache with black fingers.
“There, Yakob Vasilyevich! She doesn’t believe it’s a simple matter!”
“Hm! she doesn’t believe! Not to believe means not to want to believe. You and I want to, and so we believe.” The old man suddenly bent over and coughed hoarsely, rubbed his breast for a long time, while he stood in the middle of the room panting for breath and scanning the mother with wide-open eyes.
“I’m not the one to decide, Nikolay.”
“But, mother, you talk with them. Tell them everything is ready. Ah, if I could only see them! I’d force them!” He threw out his hands with a broad gesture and pressed them together as if embracing something firmly, and his voice rang with hot feeling that astounded the mother by its power.
“Hm! what a fellow you are!” she thought; but said aloud: “It’s for Pasha and the comrades to decide.”
Nikolay thoughtfully inclined his head.
“Who’s this Pasha?” asked the host, seating himself.
“My son.”
“What’s the family?”
“Vlasov.”
He nodded his head, got his tobacco pouch, whipped out his pipe and filled it with tobacco. He spoke brokenly:
“I’ve heard of him. My nephew knows him. He, too, is in prison—my nephew Yevchenko. Have you heard of him? And my family is Godun. They’ll soon shut all the young people in prison, and then there’ll be plenty and comfort for us old folks. The gendarme assures me that my nephew will even be sent to Siberia. They’ll exile him—the dogs!”
Lighting his pipe, he turned to Nikolay, spitting frequently on the floor:
“So she doesn’t want to? Well, that’s her affair! A person is free to feel as he wants to. Are you tired of sitting in prison? Go. Are you tired of going? Sit. They robbed you? Keep still. They beat you? Bear it. They have killed you? Stay dead. That’s certain. And I’ll carry off Savka; I’ll carry him off!” His curt, barking phrases, full of good-natured irony, perplexed the mother. But his last words aroused envy in her.
While walking along the street in the face of a cold wind and rain, she thought of Nikolay, “What a man he’s become! Think of it!” And remembering Godun, she almost prayerfully reflected, “It seems I’m not the only one who lives for the new. It’s a big fire if it so cleanses and burns all who see it.” Then she thought of her son, “If he only agreed!”
On Sunday, taking leave of Pavel i
n the waiting room of the prison, she felt a little lump of paper in her hand. She started as if it burned her skin, and cast a look of question and entreaty into her son’s face. But she found no answer there. Pavel’s blue eyes smiled with the usual composed smile familiar to her.
“Good-by!” she sighed.
The son again put out his hand to her, and a certain kindness and tenderness for her quivered on his face. “Good-by, mamma!”
She waited without letting go of his hand. “Don’t be uneasy—don’t be angry,” he said.
These words and the stubborn folds between his brows answered her question. “Well, what do you mean?” she muttered, drooping her head. “What of it?” And she quickly walked away without looking at him, in order not to betray her feelings by the tears in her eyes and the quiver of her lips. On the road she thought that the bones of the hand which had pressed her son’s hand ached and grew heavy, as if she had been struck on the shoulder.
At home, after thrusting the note into Nikolay’s hand, she stood before him, and waited while he smoothed out the tight little roll. She felt a tremor of hope again; but Nikolay said:
“Of course, this is what he writes: ‘We will not go away, comrade; we cannot, not one of us. We should lose respect for ourselves. Take into consideration the peasant recently arrested. He has merited your solicitude; he deserves that you expend much time and energy on him. It’s very hard for him here—daily collisions with the authorities. He’s already had the twenty-four hours of the dark cell. They torture him to death. We all intercede for him. Soothe and be kind to my mother; tell her; she’ll understand all. Pavel.’”
The mother straightened herself easily, and proudly tossed her head.
“Well, what is there to tell me?” she said firmly. “I understand—they want to go straight at the authorities again—‘there! condemn the truth!’”
Nikolay quickly turned aside, took out his handkerchief, blew his nose aloud, and mumbled: “I’ve caught a cold, you see!” Covering his eyes with his hands, under the pretext of adjusting his glasses, he paced up and down the room, and said: “We shouldn’t have been successful anyway.”
“Never mind; let the trial come off!” said the mother frowning.
“Here, I’ve received a letter from a comrade in St. Petersburg—”
“He can escape from Siberia, too, can’t he?”
“Of course! The comrade writes: ‘The trial is appointed for the near future; the sentence is certain—exile for everybody!’ You see, these petty cheats convert their court into the most trivial comedy. You understand? Sentence is pronounced in St. Petersburg before the trial.”
“Stop!” the mother said resolutely. “You needn’t comfort me or explain to me. Pasha won’t do what isn’t right—he won’t torture himself for nothing.” She paused to catch breath. “Nor will he torture others, and he loves me, yes. You see, he thinks of me. ‘Explain to her,’ he writes; ‘soothe her and comfort her,’ eh?”
Her heart beat quickly but boldly, and her head whirled slightly from excitement.
“Your son’s a splendid man! I respect and love him very much.”
“I tell you what—let’s think of something in regard to Rybin,” she suggested.
She wanted to do something forthwith—go somewhere, walk till she dropped from exhaustion, and then fall asleep, content with the day’s work.
“Yes—very well!” said Nikolay, pacing through the room. “Why not? We ought to have Sashenka here!”
“She’ll be here soon. She always comes on my visiting day to Pasha.”
Thoughtfully drooping his head, biting his lips and twisting his beard, Nikolay sat on the sofa by the mother’s side.
“I’m sorry my sister isn’t here. She ought to occupy herself with Rybin’s case.”
“It would be well to arrange it at once, while Pasha is there. It would be pleasant for him.”
The bell rang. They looked at each other.
“That’s Sasha,” Nikolay whispered.
“How will you tell her?” the mother whispered back.
“Yes—um!—it’s hard!”
“I pity her very much.”
The bell rang again, not so loud, as if the person on the other side of the door had also fallen to thinking and hesitated. Nikolay and the mother rose simultaneously, but at the kitchen door Nikolay turned aside.
“You’d better do it,” he said.
“He’s not willing?” the girl asked the moment the mother opened the door.
“No.”
“I knew it!” Sasha’s face paled. She unbuttoned her coat, fastened two buttons again, then tried to remove her coat, unsuccessfully, of course. “Dreadful weather—rain, wind; it’s disgusting! Is he well?”
“Yes.”
“Well and happy; always the same, and only this—” Her tone was disconsolate, and she regarded her hands.
“He writes that Rybin ought to be freed.” The mother kept her eyes turned from the girl.
“Yes? It seems to me we ought to make use of this plan.”
“I think so, too,” said Nikolay, appearing at the door. “How do you do, Sasha?”
The girl asked, extending her hand to him:
“What’s the question about? Aren’t all agreed that the plan is practicable? I know they are.”
“And who’ll organize it? Everybody’s occupied.”
“Give it to me,” said Sasha, quickly jumping to her feet. “I have time!”
“Take it. But you must ask others.”
“Very well, I will. I’ll go at once.”
She began to button up her coat again with sure, thin fingers.
“You ought to rest a little,” the mother advised.
Sasha smiled and answered in a softer voice:
“Don’t worry about me. I’m not tired.” And silently pressing their hands, she left once more, cold and stern.
CHAPTER XIV
The mother and Nikolay, walking up to the window, watched the girl pass through the yard and disappear beyond the gate. Nikolay whistled quietly, sat down at the table and began to write.
“She’ll occupy herself with this affair, and it’ll be easier for her,” the mother reflected.
“Yes, of course!” responded Nikolay, and turning around to the mother with a kind smile on his face, asked: “And how about you, Nilovna—did this cup of bitterness escape you? Did you never know the pangs for a beloved person?”
“Well!” exclaimed the mother with a wave of her hand. “What sort of a pang? The fear they had whether they won’t marry me off to this man or that man?”
“And you liked no one?”
She thought a little, and answered:
“I don’t recall, my dear! How can it be that I didn’t like anybody? I suppose there was somebody I was fond of, but I don’t remember.”
She looked at him, and concluded simply, with sad composure: “My husband beat me a lot; and everything that was before him was effaced from my soul.”
Nikolay turned back to the table; the mother walked out of the room for a minute. On her return Nikolay looked at her kindly and began to speak softly and lovingly. His reminiscences stroked her like a caress.
“And I, you see, was like Sashenka. I loved a girl: a marvelous being, a wonder, a—guiding star; she was gentle and bright for me. I met her about twenty years ago, and from that time on I loved her. And I love her now, too, to speak the truth. I love her all so—with my whole soul—gratefully—forever!”
Standing by his side the mother saw his eyes lighted from within by a clear, warm light. His hands folded over the back of the chair, and his head leaning on them, he looked into the distance; his whole body, lean and slender, but powerful, seemed to strive upward, like the stalk of a plant toward the sun.
“Why didn’t you marry? You should have!”
>
“Oh, she’s been married five years!”
“And before that—what was the matter? Didn’t she love you?”
He thought a while, and answered:
“Yes, apparently she loved me; I’m certain she did. But, you see, it was always this way: I was in prison, she was free; I was free, she was in prison or in exile. That’s very much like Sasha’s position, really. Finally they exiled her to Siberia for ten years. I wanted to follow her, but I was ashamed and she was ashamed, and I remained here. Then she met another man—a comrade of mine, a very good fellow, and they escaped together. Now they live abroad. Yes—”
Nikolay took off his glasses, wiped them, held them up to the light and began to wipe them again.
“Ah, you, my dear!” the mother exclaimed lovingly, shaking her head. She was sorry for him; at the same time something compelled her to smile a warm, motherly smile. He changed his pose, took the pen in his hand, and said, punctuating the rhythm of his speed with waves of his hand:
“Family life always diminishes the energy of a revolutionist. Children must be maintained in security, and there’s the need to work a great deal for one’s bread. The revolutionist ought without cease to develop every iota of his energy; he must deepen and broaden it; but this demands time. He must always be at the head, because we—the workingmen—are called by the logic of history to destroy the old world, to create the new life; and if we stop, if we yield to exhaustion, or are attracted by the possibility of a little immediate conquest, it’s bad—it’s almost treachery to the cause. No revolutionist can adhere closely to an individual—walk through life side by side with another individual—without distorting his faith; and we must never forget that our aim is not little conquests, but only complete victory!”
His voice became firm, his face paled, and his eyes kindled with the force that characterized him. The bell sounded again. It was Liudmila. She wore an overcoat too light for the season, her cheeks were purple with the cold. Removing her torn overshoes, she said in a vexed voice:
“The date of the trial is appointed—in a week!”
“Really?” shouted Nikolay from the room.
