The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  While he spoke, he vigorously rubbed his frozen hands, and quickly pulled out the drawers of his table, picking out papers, some of which he tore up, others he laid aside. His manner was absorbed, and his appearance all upset.

  “Do you suppose it was long ago that this place was cleared out? And look at this mass of stuff accumulated already! The devil! You see, Nilovna, it would be better for you, too, not to sleep here tonight. It’s a sorry spectacle to witness, and they may arrest you, too. And you’ll be needed for carrying Pavel’s speech about from place to place.”

  “Hm, what do they want me for? Maybe you’re mistaken.”

  Nikolay waved his forearm in front of his eyes, and said with conviction:

  “I have a keen scent. Besides, you can be of great help to Liudmila. Flee far from evil.”

  The possibility of taking a part in the printing of her son’s speech was pleasant to her, and she answered:

  “If so, I’ll go. But don’t think I’m afraid.”

  “Very well. Now, tell me where my valise and my linen are. You’ve grabbed up everything into your rapacious hands, and I’m completely robbed of the possibility of disposing of my own private property. I’m making complete preparations—this will be unpleasant to them.”

  Sasha burned the papers in silence, and carefully mixed their ashes with the other cinders in the stove.

  “Sasha, go,” said Nikolay, putting out his hand to her. “Good-by. Don’t forget books—if anything new and interesting appears. Well, good-by, dear comrade. Be more careful.”

  “Do you think it’s for long?” asked Sasha.

  “The devil knows them! Evidently. There’s something against me. Nilovna, are you going with her? It’s harder to track two people—all right?”

  “I’m going.” The mother went to dress herself, and it occurred to her how little these people who were striving for the freedom of all cared for their personal freedom. The simplicity and the businesslike manner of Nikolay in expecting the arrest both astonished and touched her. She tried to observe his face carefully; she detected nothing but his air of absorption, overshadowing the usual kindly soft expression of his eyes. There was no sign of agitation in this man, dearer to her than the others; he made no fuss. Equally attentive to all, alike kind to all, always calmly the same, he seemed to her just as much a stranger as before to everybody and everything except his cause. He seemed remote, living a secret life within himself and somewhere ahead of people. Yet she felt that he resembled her more than any of the others, and she loved him with a love that was carefully observing and, as it were, did not believe in itself. Now she felt painfully sorry for him; but she restrained her feelings, knowing that to show them would disconcert Nikolay, that he would become, as always under such circumstances, somewhat ridiculous.

  When she returned to the room she found him pressing Sasha’s hand and saying:

  “Admirable! I’m convinced of it. It’s very good for him and for you. A little personal happiness does not do any harm; but—a little, you know, so as not to make him lose his value. Are you ready, Nilovna?” He walked up to her, smiling and adjusting his glasses. “Well, good-by. I want to think that for three months, four months—well, at most half a year—half a year is a great deal of a man’s life. In half a year one can do a lot of things. Take care of yourself, please, eh? Come, let’s embrace.” Lean and thin he clasped her neck in his powerful arms, looked into her eyes, and smiled. “It seems to me I’ve fallen in love with you. I keep embracing you all the time.”

  She was silent, kissing his forehead and cheeks, and her hands quivered. For fear he might notice it, she unclasped them.

  “Go. Very well. Be careful tomorrow. This is what you should do—send the boy in the morning—Liudmila has a boy for the purpose—let him go to the house porter and ask him whether I’m home or not. I’ll forewarn the porter; he’s a good fellow, and I’m a friend of his. Well, good-by, comrades. I wish you all good.”

  On the street Sasha said quietly to the mother:

  “He’ll go as simply as this to his death, if necessary. And apparently he’ll hurry up a little in just the same way; when death stares him in the face he’ll adjust his eyeglasses, and will say ‘admirable,’ and will die.”

  “I love him,” whispered the mother.

  “I’m filled with astonishment; but love him—no. I respect him highly. He’s sort of dry, although good and even, if you please, sometimes soft; but not sufficiently human—it seems to me we’re being followed. Come, let’s part. Don’t enter Liudmila’s place if you think a spy is after you.”

  “I know,” said the mother. Sasha, however, persistently added: “Don’t enter. In that case, come to me. Good-by for the present.”

  She quickly turned around and walked back. The mother called “Good-by” after her.

  Within a few minutes she sat all frozen through at the stove in Liudmila’s little room. Her hostess, Liudmila, in a black dress girded up with a strap, slowly paced up and down the room, filling it with a rustle and the sound of her commanding voice. A fire was crackling in the stove and drawing in the air from the room. The woman’s voice sounded evenly.

  “People are a great deal more stupid than bad. They can see only what’s near to them, what it’s possible to grasp immediately; but everything that’s near is cheap; what’s distant is dear. Why, in reality, it would be more convenient and pleasanter for all if life were different, were lighter, and the people were more sensible. But to attain the distant you must disturb yourself for the immediate present—”

  Nilovna tried to guess where this woman did her printing. The room had three windows facing the street; there was a sofa and a bookcase, a table, chairs, a bed at the wall, in the corner near it a wash basin, in the other corner a stove; on the walls photographs and pictures. All was new, solid, clean; and over all the austere monastic figure of the mistress threw a cold shadow. Something concealed, something hidden, made itself felt; but where it lurked was incomprehensible. The mother looked at the doors; through one of them she had entered from the little antechamber. Near the stove was another door, narrow and high.

  “I have come to you on business,” she said in embarrassment, noticing that the hostess was regarding her.

  “I know. Nobody comes to me for any other reason.”

  Something strange seemed to be in Liudmila’s voice. The mother looked in her face. Liudmila smiled with the corners of her thin lips, her dull eyes gleamed behind her glasses. Turning her glance aside, the mother handed her the speech of Pavel.

  “Here. They ask you to print it at once.”

  And she began to tell of Nikolay’s preparations for the arrest.

  Liudmila silently thrust the manuscript into her belt and sat down on a chair. A red gleam of the fire was reflected on her spectacles; its hot smile played on her motionless face.

  “When they come to me I’m going to shoot at them,” she said with determination in her moderated voice. “I have the right to protect myself against violence; and I must fight with them if I call upon others to fight. I cannot understand calmness; I don’t like it.”

  The reflection of the fire glided across her face, and she again became austere, somewhat haughty.

  “Your life is not very pleasant,” the mother thought kindly.

  Liudmila began to read Pavel’s speech, at first reluctantly; then she bent lower and lower over the paper, quickly throwing aside the pages as she read them. When she had finished she rose, straightened herself, and walked up to the mother.

  “That’s good. That’s what I like; although here, too, there’s calmness. But the speech is the sepulchral beat of a drum, and the drummer is a powerful man.”

  She reflected a little while, lowering her head for a minute:

  “I didn’t want to speak with you about your son; I have never met him, and I don’t like sad subjects of conversation. I
know what it means to have a near one go into exile. But I want to say to you, nevertheless, that your son must be a splendid man. He’s young—that’s evident; but he is a great soul. It must be good and terrible to have such a son.”

  “Yes, it’s good. And now it’s no longer terrible.”

  Liudmila settled her smoothly combed hair with her tawny hand and sighed softly. A light, warm shadow trembled on her cheeks, the shadow of a suppressed smile.

  “We are going to print it. Will you help me?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll set it up quickly. You lie down; you had a hard day; you’re tired. Lie down here on the bed; I’m not going to sleep; and at night maybe I’ll wake you up to help me. When you have lain down, put out the lamp.”

  She threw two logs of wood into the stove, straightened herself, and passed through the narrow door near the stove, firmly closing it after her. The mother followed her with her eyes, and began to undress herself, thinking reluctantly of her hostess: “A stern person; and yet her heart burns. She can’t conceal it. Everyone loves. If you don’t love you can’t live.”

  Fatigue dizzied her brain; but her soul was strangely calm, and everything was illumined from within by a soft, kind light which quietly and evenly filled her breast. She was already acquainted with this calm; it had come to her after great agitation. At first it had slightly disturbed her; but now it only broadened her soul, strengthening it with a certain powerful but impalpable thought. Before her all the time appeared and disappeared the faces of her son, Andrey, Nikolay, Sasha. She took delight in them; they passed by without arousing thought, and only lightly and sadly touching her heart. Then she extinguished the lamp, lay down in the cold bed, shriveled up under the bed coverings, and suddenly sank into a heavy sleep.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  When she opened her eyes the room was filled by the cold, white glimmer of a clear wintry day. The hostess, with a book in her hand, lay on the sofa, and smiling unlike herself looked into her face.

  “Oh, father!” the mother exclaimed, for some reason embarrassed. “Just look! Have I been asleep a long time?”

  “Good morning!” answered Liudmila. “It’ll soon be ten o’clock. Get up and we’ll have tea.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I wanted to. I walked up to you; but you were so fast asleep and smiled so in your sleep!”

  With a supple, powerful movement of her whole body she rose from the sofa, walked up to the bed, bent toward the face of the mother, and in her dull eyes the mother saw something dear, near, and comprehensible.

  “I was sorry to disturb you. Maybe you were seeing a happy vision.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “All the same—but your smile pleased me. It was so calm, so good—so great.” Liudmila laughed, and her laugh sounded velvety. “I thought of you, of your life—your life is a hard one, isn’t it?”

  The mother, moving her eyebrows, was silent and thoughtful.

  “Of course it’s hard!” exclaimed Liudmila.

  “I don’t know,” said the mother carefully. “Sometimes it seems sort of hard; there’s so much of all, it’s all so serious, marvelous, and it moves along so quickly, one thing after the other—so quickly—”

  The wave of bold excitement familiar to her overflowed her breast, filling her heart with images and thoughts. She sat up in bed, quickly clothing her thoughts in words.

  “It goes, it goes, it goes all to one thing, to one side, and like a fire, when a house begins to burn, upward! Here it shoots forth, there it blazes out, ever brighter, ever more powerful. There’s a great deal of hardship, you know. People suffer; they are beaten, cruelly beaten; and everyone is oppressed and watched. They hide, live like monks, and many joys are closed to them; it’s very hard. And when you look at them well you see that the hard things, the evil and difficult, are around them, on the outside, and not within.”

  Liudmila quickly threw up her head, looked at her with a deep, embracing look. The mother felt that her words did not exhaust her thoughts, which vexed and offended her.

  “You’re not speaking about yourself,” said her hostess softly.

  The mother looked at her, arose from the bed, and dressing asked:

  “Not about myself? Yes; you see in this, in all that I live now, it’s hard to think of oneself; how can you withdraw into yourself when you love this thing, and that thing is dear to you, and you are afraid for everybody and are sorry for everybody? Everything crowds into your heart and draws you to all people. How can you step to one side? It’s hard.”

  Liudmila laughed, saying softly:

  “And maybe it’s not necessary.”

  “I don’t know whether it’s necessary or not; but this I do know—that people are becoming stronger than life, wiser than life; that’s evident.”

  Standing in the middle of the room, half-dressed, she fell to reflecting for a moment. Her real self suddenly appeared not to exist—the one who lived in anxiety and fear for her son, in thoughts for the safekeeping of his body. Such a person in herself was no longer; she had gone off to a great distance, and perhaps was altogether burned up by the fire of agitation. This had lightened and cleansed her soul, and had renovated her heart with a new power. She communed with herself, desiring to take a look into her own heart, and fearing lest she awaken some anxiety there.

  “What are you thinking about?” Liudmila asked kindly, walking up to her.

  “I don’t know.”

  The two women were silent, looking at each other. Both smiled; then Liudmila walked out of the room, saying:

  “What is my samovar doing?”

  The mother looked through the window. A cold, bracing day shone in the street; her breast, too, shone bright, but hot. She wanted to speak much about everything, joyfully, with a confused feeling of gratitude to somebody—she did not know whom—for all that came into her soul, and lighted it with a ruddy evening light. A desire to pray, which she had not felt for a long time, arose in her breast. Somebody’s young face came to her memory, somebody’s resonant voice shouted, “That’s the mother of Pavel Vlasov!” Sasha’s eyes flashed joyously and tenderly. Rybin’s dark, tall figure loomed up, the bronzed, firm face of her son smiled. Nikolay blinked in embarrassment; and suddenly everything was stirred with a deep but light breath.

  “Nikolay was right,” said Liudmila, entering again. “He must surely have been arrested. I sent the boy there, as you told me to. He said policemen are hiding in the yard; he did not see the house porter; but he saw the policeman who was hiding behind the gates. And spies are sauntering about; the boy knows them.”

  “So?” The mother nodded her head. “Ah, poor fellow!”

  And she sighed, but without sadness, and was quietly surprised at herself.

  “Lately he’s been reading a great deal to the city workingmen; and in general it was time for him to disappear,” Liudmila said with a frown. “The comrades told him to go, but he didn’t obey them. I think that in such cases you must compel and not try to persuade.”

  A dark-haired, red-faced boy with beautiful eyes and a hooked nose appeared in the doorway.

  “Shall I bring in the samovar?” he asked in a ringing voice.

  “Yes, please, Seryozha. This is my pupil; have you never met him before?”

  “No.”

  “He used to go to Nikolay sometimes; I sent him.”

  Liudmila seemed to the mother to be different today—simpler and nearer to her. In the supple swaying of her stately figure there was much beauty and power; her sternness had mildened; the circles under her eyes had grown larger during the night, her face paler and leaner; her large eyes had deepened. One perceived a strained exertion in her, a tightly drawn chord in her soul.

  The boy brought in the samovar.

  “Let me introduce you: Seryozha—Pelagueya Nilovna, t
he mother of the workingman whom they sentenced yesterday.”

  Seryozha bowed silently and pressed the mother’s hand. Then he brought in bread, and sat down to the table. Liudmila persuaded the mother not to go home until they found out whom the police were waiting for there.

  “Maybe they are waiting for you. I’m sure they’ll examine you.”

  “Let them. And if they arrest me, no great harm. Only I’d like to have Pasha’s speech sent off.”

  “It’s already in type. Tomorrow it’ll be possible to have it for the city and the suburb. We’ll have some for the districts, too. Do you know Natasha?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then take it to her.”

  The boy read the newspaper, and seemed not to be listening to the conversation; but at times his eyes looked from the pages of the newspaper into the face of the mother; and when she met their animated glance she felt pleased and smiled. She reproached herself for these smiles. Liudmila again mentioned Nikolay without any expression of regret for his arrest and, to the mother, it seemed in perfectly natural tones. The time passed more quickly than on the other days. When they had done drinking tea it was already near midday.

  “However!” exclaimed Liudmila, and at the same time a knock at the door was heard. The boy rose, looked inquiringly at Liudmila, prettily screwing up his eyes.

  “Open the door, Seryozha. Who do you suppose it is?” And with a composed gesture she let her hand into the pocket of the skirt, saying to the mother: “If it is the gendarmes, you, Pelagueya Nilovna, stand here in this corner, and you, Ser—”

  “I know. The dark passage,” the little boy answered softly, disappearing.

  The mother smiled. These preparations did not disturb her; she had no premonition of a misfortune.