The little old gray house of the Vlasovs attracted the attention of the
village more and more; and although there was much suspicious chariness
and unconscious hostility in this notice, yet at the same time a
confiding curiosity grew up also. Now and then some one would come over,
and looking carefully about him would say to Pavel: "Well, brother, you
are reading books here, and you know the laws. Explain to me, then----"
And he would tell Pavel about some injustice of the police or the
factory administration. In complicated cases Pavel would give the man a
note to a lawyer friend in the city, and when he could, he would explain
the case himself.
Gradually people began to look with respect upon this young, serious
man, who spoke about everything simply and boldly, and almost never
laughed, who looked at everybody and listened to everybody with an
attention which searched stubbornly into every circumstance, and always
found a certain general and endless thread binding people together by a
thousand tightly drawn knots.
Vlasova saw how her son had grown up; she strove to understand his work,
and when she succeeded, she rejoiced with a childlike joy.
Pavel rose particularly in the esteem of the people after the appearance
of his story about the "Muddy Penny."
Back of the factory, almost encircling it with a ring of putrescence,
stretched a vast marsh grown over with fir trees and birches. In the
summer it was covered with thick yellow and green scum, and swarms of
mosquitoes flew from it over the village, spreading fever in their
course. The marsh belonged to the factory, and the new manager, wishing
to extract profit from it, conceived the plan of draining it and
incidentally gathering in a fine harvest of peat. Representing to the
workingmen how much this measure would contribute to the sanitation of
the locality and the improvement of the general condition of all, the
manager gave orders to deduct a kopeck from every ruble of their
earnings, in order to cover the expense of draining the marsh. The
workingmen rebelled; they especially resented the fact that the office
clerks were exempted from paying the new tax.
Pavel was ill on the Saturday when posters were hung up announcing the
manager's order in regard to the toll. He had not gone to work and he
knew nothing about it. The next day, after mass, a dapper old man, the
smelter Sizov, and the tall, vicious-looking locksmith Makhotin, came to
him and told him of the manager's decision.
"A few of us older ones got together," said Sizov, speaking sedately,
"talked the matter over, and our comrades, you see, sent us over to you,
as you are a knowing man among us. Is there such a law as gives our
manager the right to make war upon mosquitoes with our kopecks?"
"Think!" said Makhotin, with a glimmer in his narrow eyes. "Three years
ago these sharpers collected a tax to build a bath house. Three thousand
eight hundred rubles is what they gathered in. Where are those rubles?
And where is the bath house?"
Pavel explained the injustice of the tax, and the obvious advantage of
such a procedure to the factory owners; and both of his visitors went
away in a surly mood.
The mother, who had gone with them to the door, said, laughing:
"Now, Pasha, the old people have also begun to come to seek wisdom from
you."
Without replying, Pavel sat down at the table with a busy air and began
to write. In a few minutes he said to her: "Please go to the city
immediately and deliver this note."
"Is it dangerous?" she asked.
"Yes! A newspaper is being published for us down there! That 'Muddy
Penny' story must go into the next issue."
"I'll go at once," she replied, beginning hurriedly to put on her wraps.
This was the first commission her son had given her. She was happy that
he spoke to her so openly about the matter, and that she might be useful
to him in his work.
"I understand all about it, Pasha," she said. "It's a piece of robbery.
What's the name of the man? Yegor Ivanovich?"
"Yes," said Pavel, smiling kindly.
She returned late in the evening, exhausted but contented.
"I saw Sashenka," she told her son. "She sends you her regards. And this
Yegor Ivanovich is such a simple fellow, such a joker! He speaks so
comically."
"I'm glad you like them," said Pavel softly.
"They are simple people, Pasha. It's good when people are simple. And
they all respect you."
Again, Monday, Pavel did not go to work. His head ached. But at dinner
time Fedya Mazin came running in, excited, out of breath, happy, and
tired.
"Come! The whole factory has arisen! They've sent for you. Sizov and
Makhotin say you can explain better than anybody else. My! What a
hullabaloo!"
Pavel began to dress himself silently.
"A crowd of women are gathered there; they are screaming!"
"I'll go, too," declared the mother. "You're not well, and--what are
they doing? I'm going, too."
"Come," Pavel said briefly.
They walked along the street quickly and silently. The mother panted
with the exertion of the rapid gait and her excitement. She felt that
something big was happening. At the factory gates a throng of women were
discussing the affair in shrill voices. When the three pushed into the
yard, they found themselves in the thick of a crowd buzzing and humming
in excitement. The mother saw that all heads were turned in the same
direction, toward the blacksmith's wall, where Sizov, Makhotin, Vyalov,
and five or six influential, solid workingmen were standing on a high
pile of old iron heaped on the red brick paving of the court, and waving
their hands.
"Vlasov is coming!" somebody shouted.
"Vlasov? Bring him along!"
Pavel was seized and pushed forward, and the mother was left alone.
"Silence!" came the shout from various directions. Near by the even
voice of Rybin was heard:
"We must make a stand, not for the kopeck, but for justice. What is dear
to us is not our kopeck, because it's no rounder than any other kopeck;
it's only heavier; there's more human blood in it than in the manager's
ruble. That's the truth!"
The words fell forcibly on the crowd and stirred the men to hot
responses:
"That's right! Good, Rybin!"
"Silence! The devil take you!"
"Vlasov's come!"
The voices mingled in a confused uproar, drowning the ponderous whir of
the machinery, the sharp snorts of the steam, and the flapping of the
leather belts. From all sides people came running, waving their hands;
they fell into arguments, and excited one another with burning, stinging
words. The irritation that had found no vent, that had always lain
dormant in tired breasts, had awakened, demanded an outlet, and burst
from their mouths in a volley of words. It soared into the air like a
great bird spreading its motley wings ever wider and wider, clutching
people and dragging them after it, and striking them against one
another. It lived anew, transformed into flaming wrath. A cloud of dust
and soot hung over the crowd; their faces were all afire, and black
drops of sweat trickled down their cheeks. Their eyes gleamed from
darkened countenances; their teeth glistened.
Pavel appeared on the spot where Sizov and Makhotin were standing, and
his voice rang out:
"Comrades!"
The mother saw that his face paled and his lips trembled; she
involuntarily pushed forward, shoving her way through the crowd.
"Where are you going, old woman?"
She heard the angry question, and the people pushed her, but she would
not stop, thrusting the crowd aside with her shoulders and elbows. She
slowly forced her way nearer to her son, yielding to the desire to stand
by his side. When Pavel had thrown out the word to which he was wont to
attach a deep and significant meaning, his throat contracted in a sharp
spasm of the joy of fight. He was seized with an invincible desire to
give himself up to the strength of his faith; to throw his heart to the
people. His heart kindled with the dream of truth.
"Comrades!" he repeated, extracting power and rapture from the word. "We
are the people who build churches and factories, forge chains and coin
money, make toys and machines. We are that living force which feeds and
amuses the world from the cradle to the grave."
"There!" Rybin exclaimed.
"Always and everywhere we are first in work but last in life. Who cares
for us? Who wishes us good? Who regards us as human beings? No one!"
"No one!" echoed from the crowd.
Pavel, mastering himself, began to talk more simply and calmly; the
crowd slowly drew about him, blending into one dark, thick,
thousand-headed body. It looked into his face with hundreds of attentive
eyes; it sucked in his words in silent, strained attention.
"We will not attain to a better life until we feel ourselves as
comrades, as one family of friends firmly bound together by one
desire--the desire to fight for our rights."
"Get down to business!" somebody standing near the mother shouted
rudely.
"Don't interrupt!" "Shut up!" The two muffled exclamations were heard in
different places. The soot-covered faces frowned in sulky incredulity;
scores of eyes looked into Pavel's face thoughtfully and seriously.
"A socialist, but no fool!" somebody observed.
"I say, he does speak boldly!" said a tall, crippled workingman, tapping
the mother on the shoulder.
"It is time, comrades, to take a stand against the greedy power that
lives by our labor. It is time to defend ourselves; we must all
understand that no one except ourselves will help us. One for all and
all for one--this is our law, if we want to crush the foe!"
"He's right, boys!" Makhotin shouted. "Listen to the truth!" And, with a
broad sweep of his arm, he shook his fist in the air.
"We must call out the manager at once," said Pavel. "We must ask him."
As if struck by a tornado, the crowd rocked to and fro; scores of voices
shouted:
"The manager! The manager! Let him come! Let him explain!"
"Send delegates for him! Bring him here!"
"No, don't; it's not necessary!"
The mother pushed her way to the front and looked up at her son. She was
filled with pride. Her son stood among the old, respected workingmen;
all listened to him and agreed with him! She was pleased that he was so
calm and talked so simply; not angrily, not swearing, like the others.
Broken exclamations, wrathful words and oaths descended like hail on
iron. Pavel looked down on the people from his elevation, and with
wide-open eyes seemed to be seeking something among them.
"Delegates!"
"Let Sizov speak!"
"Vlasov!"
"Rybin! He has a terrible tongue!"
Finally Sizov, Rybin, and Pavel were chosen for the interview with the
manager. When just about to send for the manager, suddenly low
exclamations were heard in the crowd:
"Here he comes himself!"
"The manager?"
"Ah!"
The crowd opened to make way for a tall, spare man with a pointed beard,
an elongated face and blinking eyes.
"Permit me," he said, as he pushed the people aside with a short motion
of his hand, without touching them. With the experienced look of a ruler
of people, he scanned the workingmen's faces with a searching gaze. They
took their hats off and bowed to him. He walked past them without
acknowledging their greetings. His presence silenced and confused the
crowd, and evoked embarrassed smiles and low exclamations, as of
repentant children who had already come to regret their prank.
Now he passed by the mother, casting a stern glance at her face, and
stopped before the pile of iron. Somebody from above extended a hand to
him; he did not take it, but with an easy, powerful movement of his body
he clambered up and stationed himself in front of Pavel and Sizov.
Looking around the silent crowd, he asked:
"What's the meaning of this crowd? Why have you dropped your work?"
For a few seconds silence reigned. Sizov waved his cap in the air,
shrugged his shoulders, and dropped his head.
"I am asking you a question!" continued the manager.
Pavel moved alongside of him and said in a low voice, pointing to Sizov
and Rybin:
"We three are authorized by all the comrades to ask you to revoke your
order about the kopeck discount."
"Why?" asked the manager, without looking at Pavel.
"We do not consider such a tax just!" Pavel replied loudly.
"So, in my plan to drain the marsh you see only a desire to exploit the
workingmen and not a desire to better their conditions; is that it?"
"Yes!" Pavel replied.
"And you, also?" the manager asked Rybin.
"The very same!"
"How about you, my worthy friend?" The manager turned to Sizov.
"I, too, want to ask you to let us keep our kopecks." And drooping his
head again, Sizov smiled guiltily. The manager slowly bent his look upon
the crowd again, shrugged his shoulders, and then, regarding Pavel
searchingly, observed:
"You appear to be a fairly intelligent man. Do you not understand the
usefulness of this measure?"
Pavel replied loudly:
"If the factory should drain the marsh at its own expense, we would all
understand it!"
"This factory is not in the philanthropy business!" remarked the manager
dryly. "I order you all to start work at once!"
And he began to descend, cautiously feeling the iron with his feet, and
without looking at anyone.
A dissatisfied hum was heard in the crowd.
"What!" asked the manager, halting.
All were silent; then from the distance came a solitary voice:
"You go to work yourself!"
"If in fifteen minutes you do not start work, I'll order every single
one of you to be discharged!" the manager announced dryly and
distinctly.
He again proceeded through the crowd, but now an indistinct murmur
followed him, and the shouting grew louder as his figure receded.
"Speak to him!"
"That's what you call justice! Worse luck!"
Some turned to Pavel and shouted:
"Say, you great lawyer, you, what's to be done now? You talked and
talked, but the moment he came it all went up in the air!"
"Well, Vlasov, what now?"
When the shouts became more insistent, Pavel raised his hand and said:
"Comrades, I propose that we quit work until he gives up that kopeck!"
Excited voices burst out:
"He thinks we're fools!"
"We ought to do it!"
"A strike?"
"For one kopeck?"
"Why not? Why not strike?"
"We'll all be discharged!"
"And who is going to do the work?"
"There are others!"
"Who? Judases?"
"Every year I would have to give three rubles and sixty kopecks to the
mosquitoes!"
"All of us would have to give it!"
Pavel walked down and stood at the side of his mother. No one paid any
attention to him now. They were all yelling and debating hotly with one
another.
"You cannot get them to strike!" said Rybin, coming up to Pavel. "Greedy
as these people are for a penny, they are too cowardly. You may,
perhaps, induce about three hundred of them to follow you, no more. It's
a heap of dung you won't lift with one toss of the pitchfork, I tell
you!"
Pavel was silent. In front of him the huge black face of the crowd was
rocking wildly, and fixed on him an importunate stare. His heart beat in
alarm. It seemed to him as if all the words he had spoken vanished in
the crowd without leaving any trace, like scattered drops of rain
falling on parched soil. One after the other, workmen approached him
praising his speech, but doubting the success of a strike, and
complaining how little the people understood their own interests and
realized their own strength.
Pavel had a sense of injury and disappointment as to his own power. His
head ached; he felt desolate. Hitherto, whenever he pictured the triumph
of his truth, he wanted to cry with the delight that seized his heart.
But here he had spoken his truth to the people, and behold! when clothed
in words it appeared so pale, so powerless, so incapable of affecting
anyone. He blamed himself; it seemed to him that he had concealed his
dream in a poor, disfiguring garment and no one could, therefore, detect
its beauty.
He went home, tired and moody. He was followed by his mother and Sizov,
while Rybin walked alongside, buzzing into his ear:
"You speak well, but you don't speak to the heart! That's the trouble!
The spark must be thrown into the heart, into its very depths!"
"It's time we lived and were guided by reason," Pavel said in a low
voice.
"The boot does not fit the foot; it's too thin and narrow! The foot
won't get in! And if it does, it will wear the boot out mighty quick.
That is the trouble."
Sizov, meanwhile, talked to the mother.
"It's time for us old folks to get into our graves. Nilovna! A new
people is coming. What sort of a life have we lived? We crawled on our
knees, and always crouched on the ground! But here are the new people.
They have either come to their senses, or else are blundering worse than
we; but they are not like us, anyway. Just look at those youngsters
talking to the manager as to their equal! Yes, ma'am! Oh, if only my son
Matvey were alive! Good-by, Pavel Vlasov! You stand up for the people
all right, brother. God grant you his favor! Perhaps you'll find a way
out. God grant it!" And he walked away.
"Yes, you may as well die straight off!" murmured Rybin. "You are no
men, now. You are only putty--good to fill cracks with, that's all! Did
you see, Pavel, who it was that shouted to make you a delegate? It was
those who call you socialist--agitator--yes!--thinking you'd be
discharged, and it would serve you right!"
"They are right, according to their lights!" said Pavel.
"So are wolves when they tear one another to pieces!" Rybin's face was
sullen, his voice unusually tremulous.
The whole day Pavel felt ill at ease, as if he had lost something, he
did not know what, and anticipated a further loss.
At night when the mother was asleep and he was reading in bed, gendarmes
appeared and began to search everywhere--in the yard, in the attic. They
were sullen; the yellow-faced officer conducted himself as on the first
occasion, insultingly, derisively, delighting in abuse, endeavoring to
cut down to the very heart. The mother, in a corner, maintained silence,
never removing her eyes from her son's face. He made every effort not to
betray his emotion; but whenever the officer laughed, his fingers
twitched strangely, and the old woman felt how hard it was for him not
to reply, and to bear the jesting. This time the affair was not so
terrorizing to her as at the first search. She felt a greater hatred to
these gray, spurred night callers, and her hatred swallowed up her
alarm.
Pavel managed to whisper:
"They'll arrest me."
Inclining her head, she quietly replied:
"I understand."
She did understand--they would put him in jail for what he had said to
the workingmen that day. But since all agreed with what he had said, and
all ought to stand up for him, he would not be detained long.
She longed to embrace him and cry over him; but there stood the officer,
watching her with a malevolent squint of his eyes. His lips trembled,
his mustache twitched. It seemed to Vlasova that the officer was but
waiting for her tears, complaints, and supplications. With a supreme
effort endeavoring to say as little as possible, she pressed her son's
hand, and holding her breath said slowly, in a low tone:
[Illustration: "It seemed to Vlasova that the officer was but waiting
for her tears."]
"Good-by, Pasha. Did you take everything you need?"
"Everything. Don't worry!"
"Christ be with you!"