Several days later Vyesovshchikov came in, as shabby, untidy, and
disgruntled as ever.
"Haven't you heard who killed Isay?" He stopped in his clumsy pacing of
the room to turn to Pavel.
"No!" Pavel answered briefly.
"There you got a man who wasn't squeamish about the job! And I'd always
been preparing to do it myself. It was my job--just the thing for me!"
"Don't talk nonsense, Nikolay," Pavel said in a friendly manner.
"Now, really, what's the matter with you?" interposed the mother kindly.
"You have a soft heart, and yet you keep barking like a vicious dog.
What do you go on that way for?"
At this moment she was actually pleased to see Nikolay. Even his
pockmarked face looked more agreeable to her. She pitied him as never
before.
"Well, I'm not fit for anything but jobs like that!" said Nikolay dully,
shrugging his shoulders. "I keep thinking, and thinking where my place
in the world is. There is no place for me! The people require to be
spoken to, and I cannot. I see everything; I feel all the people's
wrongs; but I cannot express myself: I have a dumb soul." He went over
to Pavel with drooping head; and scraping his fingers on the table, he
said plaintively, and so unlike himself, childishly, sadly: "Give me
some hard work to do, comrade. I can't live this life any longer. It's
so senseless, so useless. You are all working in the movement, and I see
that it is growing, and I'm outside of it all. I haul boards and beams.
Is it possible to live for the sake of hauling timber? Give me some hard
work."
Pavel clasped his hand, pulling him toward himself.
"We will!"
From behind the curtains resounded the Little Russian's voice:
"Nikolay, I'll teach you typesetting, and you'll work as a compositor
for us. Yes?"
Nikolay went over to him and said:
"If you'll teach me that, I'll give you my knife."
"To the devil with your knife!" exclaimed the Little Russian and burst
out laughing.
"It's a good knife," Nikolay insisted. Pavel laughed, too.
Vyesovshchikov stopped in the middle of the room and asked:
"Are you laughing at me?"
"Of course," replied the Little Russian, jumping out of bed. "I'll tell
you what! Let's take a walk in the fields! The night is fine; there's
bright moonshine. Let's go!"
"All right," said Pavel.
"And I'll go with you, too!" declared Nikolay. "I like to hear you
laugh, Little Russian."
"And I like to hear you promise presents," answered the Little Russian,
smiling.
While Andrey was dressing in the kitchen, the mother scolded him:
"Dress warmer! You'll get sick." And when they all had left, she watched
them through the window; then looked at the ikon, and said softly: "God
help them!"
She turned off the lamp and began to pray alone in the moonlit room.
* * * * *
The days flew by in such rapid succession that the mother could not give
much thought to the first of May. Only at night, when, exhausted by the
noise and the exciting bustle of the day, she went to bed, tired and
worn out, her heart would begin to ache.
"Oh, dear, if it would only be over soon!"
At dawn, when the factory whistle blew, the son and the Little Russian,
after hastily drinking tea and snatching a bite, would go, leaving a
dozen or so small commissions for the mother. The whole day long she
would move around like a squirrel in a wheel, cook dinner, and boil
lilac-colored gelatin and glue for the proclamations. Some people would
come, leave notes with her to deliver to Pavel, and disappear, infecting
her with their excitement.
The leaflets appealing to the working people to celebrate the first of
May flooded the village and the factory. Every night they were posted on
the fences, even on the doors of the police station; and every day they
were found in the factory. In the mornings the police would go around,
swearing, tearing down and scraping off the lilac-covered bills from the
fences. At noon, however, these bills would fly over the streets again,
rolling to the feet of the passers-by. Spies were sent from the city to
stand at the street corners and carefully scan the working people on
their gay passages from and to the factory at dinner time. Everybody was
pleased to see the impotence of the police, and even the elder
workingmen would smile at one another:
"Things are happening, aren't they?"
All over, people would cluster into groups hotly discussing the stirring
appeals. Life was at boiling point. This spring it held more of interest
to everybody, it brought forth something new to all; for some it was a
good excuse to excite themselves--they could pour out their malicious
oaths on the agitators; to others, it brought perplexed anxiety as well
as hope; to others again, the minority, an acute delight in the
consciousness of being the power that set the village astir.
Pavel and Andrey scarcely ever went to bed. They came home just before
the morning whistle sounded, tired, hoarse, and pale. The mother knew
that they held meetings in the woods and the marsh; that squads of
mounted police galloped around the village, that spies were crawling all
over, holding up and searching single workingmen, dispersing groups, and
sometimes making an arrest. She understood that her son and Andrey might
be arrested any night. Sometimes she thought that this would be the best
thing for them.
Strangely enough, the investigation of the murder of Isay, the record
clerk, suddenly ceased. For two days the local police questioned the
people in regard to the matter, examining about ten men or so, and
finally lost interest in the affair.
Marya Korsunova, in a chat with the mother, reflected the opinion of the
police, with whom she associated as amicably as with everybody:
"How is it possible to find the guilty man? That morning some hundred
people met Isay, and ninety of them, if not more, might have given him
the blow. During these eight years he has galled everybody."
The Little Russian changed considerably. His face became hollow-cheeked;
his eyelids got heavy and drooped over his round eyes, half covering
them. His smiles were wrung from him unwillingly, and two thin wrinkles
were drawn from his nostrils to the corners of his lips. He talked less
about everyday matters; on the other hand, he was more frequently
enkindled with a passionate fire; and he intoxicated his listeners with
his ecstatic words about the future, about the bright, beautiful
holiday, when they would celebrate the triumph of freedom and reason.
Listening to his words, the mother felt that he had gone further than
anybody else toward the great, glorious day, and that he saw the joys of
that future more vividly than the rest. When the investigations of
Isay's murder ceased, he said in disgust and smiling sadly:
"It's not only the people they treat like trash, but even the very men
whom they set on the people like dogs. They have no concern for their
faithful Judases, they care only for their shekels--only for them." And
after a sullen silence, he added: "And I pity that man the more I think
of him. I didn't intend to kill him--didn't want to!"
"Enough, Andrey," said Pavel severely.
"You happened to knock against something rotten, and it fell to pieces,"
added the mother in a low voice.
"You're right--but that's no consolation."
He often spoke in this way. In his mouth the words assumed a peculiar,
universal significance, bitter and corrosive.
At last, it was the first of May! The whistle shrilled as usual,
powerful and peremptory. The mother, who hadn't slept a minute during
the night, jumped out of bed, made a fire in the samovar, which had been
prepared the evening before, and was about, as always, to knock at the
door of her son's and Andrey's room, when, with a wave of her hand she
recollected the day, and went to seat herself at the window, leaning her
cheek on her hand.
Clusters of light clouds, white and rosy, sailed swiftly across the pale
blue sky, like huge birds frightened by the piercing shriek of the
escaping steam. The mother watched the clouds, absorbed in herself. Her
head was heavy, her eyes dry and inflamed from the sleepless night. A
strange calm possessed her breast, her heart was beating evenly, and her
mind dwelt on only common, everyday things.
"I prepared the samovar too early; it will boil away. Let them sleep
longer to-day; they've worn themselves out, both of them."
A cheerful ray of sun looked into the room. She held her hand out to it,
and with the other gently patted the bright young beam, smiling kindly
and thoughtfully. Then she rose, removed the pipe from the samovar,
trying not to make a noise, washed herself, and began to pray, crossing
herself piously, and noiselessly moving her lips. Her face was radiant,
and her right eyebrow kept rising gradually and suddenly dropping.
The second whistle blew more softly with less assurance, a tremor in its
thick and mellow sound. It seemed to the mother that the whistle lasted
longer to-day than ever. The clear, musical voice of the Little Russian
sounded in the room:
"Pavel, do you hear? They're calling."
The mother heard the patter of bare feet on the floor and some one yawn
with gusto.
"The samovar is ready," she cried.
"We're getting up," Pavel answered merrily.
"The sun is rising," said the Little Russian. "The clouds are racing;
they're out of place to-day." He went into the kitchen all disheveled
but jolly after his sleep. "Good morning, mother dear; how did you
sleep?"
The mother went to him and whispered:
"Andriusha, keep close to him."
"Certainly. As long as it depends on us, we'll always stick to each
other, you may be sure."
"What's that whispering about?" Pavel asked.
"Nothing. She told me to wash myself better, so the girls will look at
me," replied the Little Russian, going out on the porch to wash himself.
"'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 irreconcilable 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 to-day, 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.