"All right; take him! I'm leaving! But now, do you know, you cursed

dogs, that he is a political criminal; that he is going against our

Czar; that he stirs up riots--do you know it?--against the Emperor, the

Czar? And you protect him; you, too, are rebels. Aha--a----"

Without budging, without moving her eyes, the strength of reason gone

from her, the mother stood as if in a heavy sleep, overwhelmed by fear

and pity. The outraged, sullen, wrathful shouts of the people buzzed

like bees in her head.

"If he has done something wrong, lead him to court."

"And don't beat him!"

"Forgive him, your Honor!"

"Now, really, what does it mean? Without any law whatever!"

"Why, is it possible? If they begin to beat everybody that way, what'll

happen then?"

"The devils! Our torturers!"

The people fell into two groups--the one surrounding the police

commissioner shouted and exhorted him; the other, less numerous,

remained about the beaten man, humming and sullen. Several men lifted

him from the ground. The policemen again wanted to bind his hands.

"Wait a little while, you devils!" the people shouted.

Rybin wiped the blood from his face and beard and looked about in

silence. His gaze glided by the face of the mother. She started,

stretched herself out to him, and instinctively waved her hand. He

turned away; but in a few minutes his eyes again rested on her face. It

seemed to her that he straightened himself and raised his head, that his

blood-covered cheeks quivered.

"Did he recognize me? I wonder if he did?"

She nodded her head to him and started with a sorrowful, painful joy.

But the next moment she saw that the blue-eyed peasant was standing near

him and also looking at her. His gaze awakened her to the consciousness

of the risk she was running.

"What am I doing? They'll take me, too."

The peasant said something to Rybin, who shook his head.

"Never mind!" he exclaimed, his voice tremulous, but clear and bold.

"I'm not alone in the world. They'll not capture all the truth. In the

place where I was the memory of me will remain. That's it! Even though

they destroy the nest, aren't there more friends and comrades there?"

"He's saying this for me," the mother decided quickly.

"The people will build other nests for the truth; and a day will come

when the eagles will fly from them into freedom. The people will

emancipate themselves."

A woman brought a pail of water and, wailing and groaning, began to wash

Rybin's face. Her thin, piteous voice mixed with Mikhaïl's words and

hindered the mother from understanding them. A throng of peasants came

up with the police commissioner in front of them. Some one shouted

aloud:

"Come; I'm going to make an arrest! Who's next?"

Then the voice of the police commissioner was heard. It had

changed--mortification now evident in its altered tone.

"I may strike you, but you mayn't strike me. Don't you dare, you dunce!"

"Is that so? And who are you, pray? A god?"

A confused but subdued clamor drowned Rybin's voice.

"Don't argue, uncle. You're up against the authorities."

"Don't be angry, your Honor. The man's out of his wits."

"Keep still, you funny fellow!"

"Here, they'll soon take you to the city!"

"There's more law there!"

The shouts of the crowd sounded pacificatory, entreating; they blended

into a thick, indistinct babel, in which there was something hopeless

and pitiful. The policemen led Rybin up the steps of the town hall and

disappeared with him behind the doors. People began to depart in a

hurry. The mother saw the blue-eyed peasant go across the square and

look at her sidewise. Her legs trembled under her knees. A dismal

feeling of impotence and loneliness gnawed at her heart sickeningly.

"I mustn't go away," she thought. "I mustn't!" and holding on to the

rails firmly, she waited.

The police commissioner walked up the steps of the town hall and said in

a rebuking voice, which had assumed its former blankness and

soullessness:

"You're fools, you damned scoundrels! You don't understand a thing, and

poke your noses into an affair like this--a government affair. Cattle!

You ought to thank me, fall on your knees before me for my goodness! If

I were to say so, you would all be put to hard labor."

About a score of peasants stood with bared heads and listened in

silence. It began to grow dusk; the clouds lowered. The blue-eyed

peasant walked up to the steps, and said with a sigh:

"That's the kind of business we have here!"

"Ye-es," the mother rejoined quietly.

He looked at her with an open gaze.

"What's your occupation?" he asked after a pause.

"I buy lace from the women, and linen, too."

The peasant slowly stroked his beard. Then looking up at the town hall

he said gloomily and softly:

"You won't find anything of that kind here."

The mother looked down on him, and waited for a more suitable moment to

depart for the tavern. The peasant's face was thoughtful and handsome

and his eyes were sad. Broad-shouldered and tall, he was dressed in a

patched-up coat, in a clean chintz shirt, and reddish homespun trousers.

His feet were stockingless.

The mother for some reason drew a sigh of relief, and suddenly obeying

an impulse from within, yielding to an instinct that got the better of

her reason, she surprised herself by asking him:

"Can I stay in your house overnight?"

At the question everything in her muscles, her bones, tightened stiffly.

She straightened herself, holding her breath, and fixed her eyes on the

peasant. Pricking thoughts quickly flashed through her mind: "I'll ruin

everybody--Nikolay Ivanovich, Sonyushka--I'll not see Pasha for a long

time--they'll kill him----"

Looking on the ground, the peasant answered deliberately, folding his

coat over his breast:

"Stay overnight? Yes, you can. Why not? Only my home is very poor!"

"Never mind; I'm not used to luxury," the mother answered

uncalculatingly.

"You can stay with me overnight," the peasant repeated, measuring her

with a searching glance.

It had already grown dark, and in the twilight his eyes shone cold, his

face seemed very pale. The mother looked around, and as if dropping

under distress, she said in an undertone:

"Then I'll go at once, and you'll take my valise."

"All right!" He shrugged his shoulders, again folded his coat and said

softly:

"There goes the wagon!"

In a few moments, after the crowd had begun to disperse, Rybin appeared

again on the steps of the town hall. His hands were bound; his head and

face were wrapped up in a gray cloth, and he was pushed into a waiting

wagon.

"Farewell, good people!" his voice rang out in the cold evening

twilight. "Search for the truth. Guard it! Believe the man who will

bring you the clean word; cherish him. Don't spare yourselves in the

cause of truth!"

"Silence, you dog!" shouted the voice of the police commissioner.

"Policeman, start the horses up, you fool!"

"What have you to be sorry for? What sort of life have you?"

The wagon started. Sitting in it with a policeman on either side, Rybin

shouted dully:

"For the sake of what are you perishing--in hunger? Strive for

freedom--it'll give you bread and--truth. Farewell, good people!"

The hasty rumble of the wheels, the tramp of the horses, the shout of

the police officer, enveloped his speech and muffled it.

"It's done!" said the peasant, shaking his head. "You wait at the

station a little while, and I'll come soon."

CHAPTER XI

The mother went to the room in the tavern, sat herself at the table in

front of the samovar, took a piece of bread in her hand, looked at it,

and slowly put it back on the plate. She was not hungry; the feeling in

her breast rose again and flushed her with nausea. She grew faint and

dizzy; the blood was sucked from her heart. Before her stood the face of

the blue-eyed peasant. It was a face that expressed nothing and failed

to arouse confidence. For some reason the mother did not want to tell

herself in so many words that he would betray her. The suspicion lay

deep in her breast--a dead weight, dull and motionless.

"He scented me!" she thought idly and faintly. "He noticed--he guessed."

Further than this her thoughts would not go, and she sank into an

oppressive despondency. The nausea, the spiritless stillness beyond the

window that replaced the noise, disclosed something huge, but subdued,

something frightening, which sharpened her feeling of solitude, her

consciousness of powerlessness, and filled her heart with ashen gloom.

The young girl came in and stopped at the door.

"Shall I bring you an omelette?"

"No, thank you, I don't want it; the shouts frightened me."

The girl walked up to the table and began to speak excitedly in hasty,

terror-stricken tones:

"How the police commissioner beat him! I stood near and could see. All

his teeth were broken. He spit out and his teeth fell on the ground. The

blood came thick--thick and dark. You couldn't see his eyes at all; they

were swollen up. He's a tar man. The sergeant is in there in our place

drunk, but he keeps on calling for whisky. They say there was a whole

band of them, and that this bearded man was their elder, the hetman.

Three were captured and one escaped. They seized a teacher, too; he was

also with them. They don't believe in God, and they try to persuade

others to rob all the churches. That's the kind of people they are; and

our peasants, some of them pitied him--that fellow--and others say they

should have settled him for good and all. We have such mean peasants

here! Oh, my! oh, my!"

The mother, by giving the girl's disconnected, rapid talk her fixed

attention, tried to stifle her uneasiness, to dissipate her dismal

forebodings. As for the girl, she must have rejoiced in an auditor. Her

words fairly choked her and she babbled on in lowered voice with greater

and greater animation:

"Papa says it all comes from the poor crop. This is the second year

we've had a bad harvest. The people are exhausted. That's the reason we

have such peasants springing up now. What a shame! You ought to hear

them shout and fight at the village assemblies. The other day when

Vosynkov was sold out for arrears he dealt the starosta (bailiff) a

cracking blow on the face. 'There are my arrears for you!' he says."

Heavy steps were heard at the door. The mother rose to her feet with

difficulty. The blue-eyed peasant came in, and taking off his hat asked:

"Where is the baggage?"

He lifted the valise lightly, shook it, and said:

"Why, it's empty! Marya, show the guest the way to my house," and he

walked off without looking around.

"Are you going to stay here overnight?" asked the girl.

"Yes. I'm after lace; I buy lace."

"They don't make lace here. They make lace in Tinkov and in Daryina, but

not among us."

"I'm going there to-morrow; I'm tired."

On paying for the tea she made the girl very happy by handing her three

kopecks. On the road the girl's feet splashed quickly in the mud.

"If you want to, I'll run over to Daryina, and I'll tell the women to

bring their lace here. That'll save your going there. It's about eight

miles."

"That's not necessary, my dear."

The cold air refreshed the mother as she stepped along beside the girl.

A resolution slowly formulated itself in her mind--confused, but fraught

with a promise. She wished to hasten its growth, and asked herself

persistently: "How shall I behave? Suppose I come straight out with the

truth?"

It was dark, damp, and cold. The windows of the peasants' huts shone

dimly with a motionless reddish light; the cattle lowed drowsily in the

stillness, and short halloos reverberated through the fields. The

village was clothed in darkness and an oppressive melancholy.

"Here!" said the girl, "you've chosen a poor lodging for yourself. This

peasant is very poor." She opened the door and shouted briskly into the

hut: "Aunt Tatyana, a lodger has come!" She ran away, her "Good-by!"

flying back from the darkness.

The mother stopped at the threshold and peered about with her palm above

her eyes. The hut was very small, but its cleanness and neatness caught

the eye at once. From behind the stove a young woman bowed silently and

disappeared. On a table in a corner toward the front of the room burned

a lamp. The master of the hut sat at the table, tapping his fingers on

its edge. He fixed his glance on the mother's eyes.

"Come in!" he said, after a deliberate pause.

"Tatyana, go call Pyotr. Quick!"

The woman hastened away without looking at her guest. The mother seated

herself on the bench opposite the peasant and looked around--her valise

was not in sight. An oppressive stillness filled the hut, broken only by

the scarcely audible sputtering of the lamplight. The face of the

peasant, preoccupied and gloomy, wavered in vague outline before the

eyes of the mother, and for some reason caused her dismal annoyance.

"Well, why doesn't he say something? Quick!"

"Where's my valise?" Her loud, stern question coming suddenly was a

surprise to herself. The peasant shrugged his shoulders and thoughtfully

gave the indefinite answer:

"It's safe." He lowered his voice and continued gloomily: "Just now, in

front of the girl, I said on purpose that it was empty. No, it's not

empty. It's very heavily loaded."

"Well, what of it?"

The peasant rose, approached her, bent over her, and whispered: "Do you

know that man?"

The mother started, but answered firmly:

"I do."

Her laconic reply, as it were, kindled a light within her which rendered

everything outside clear. She sighed in relief. Shifting her position on

the bench, she settled herself more firmly on it, while the peasant

laughed broadly.

"I guessed it--when you made the sign--and he, too. I asked him,

whispering in his ear, whether he knows the woman standing on the

steps."

"And what did he say?"

"He? He says 'there are a great many of us.' Yes--'there are a great

many of us,' he says."

The peasant looked into the eyes of his guest questioningly, and,

smiling again, he continued:

"He's a man of great force, he is brave, he speaks straight out. They

beat him, and he keeps on his own way."

The peasant's uncertain, weak voice, his unfinished, but clear face, his

open eyes, inspired the mother with more and more confidence. Instead of

alarm and despondency, a sharp, shooting pity for Rybin filled her

bosom. Overwhelmed by her feelings, unable to restrain herself, she

suddenly burst out in bitter malice:

"Robbers, bigots!" and she broke into sobs.

The peasant walked away from her, sullenly nodding his head.

"The authorities have hired a whole lot of assistants to do their dirty

work for them. Yes, yes." He turned abruptly toward the mother again and

said softly: "Here's what I guessed--that you have papers in the valise.

Is that true?"

"Yes," answered the mother simply, wiping away her tears. "I was

bringing them to him."

He lowered his brows, gathered his beard into his hand, and looking on

the floor was silent for a time.

"The papers reached us, too; some books, also. We need them all. They

are so true. I can do very little reading myself, but I have a

friend--he can. My wife also reads to me." The peasant pondered for a

moment. "Now, then, what are you going to do with them--with the

valise?"

The mother looked at him.

"I'll leave it to you."

He was not surprised, did not protest, but only said curtly, "To us,"

and nodded his head in assent. He let go of his beard, but continued to

comb it with his fingers as he sat down.

With inexorable, stubborn persistency the mother's memory held up before

her eyes the scene of Rybin's torture. His image extinguished all

thoughts in her mind. The pain and injury she felt for the man obscured

every other sensation. Forgotten was the valise with the books and

newspapers. She had feelings only for Rybin. Tears flowed constantly;

her face was gloomy; but her voice did not tremble when she said to her

host:

"They rob a man, they choke him, they trample him in the mud--the

accursed! And when he says, 'What are you doing, you godless men?' they

beat and torture him."

"Power," returned the peasant. "They have great power."

"From where do they get it?" exclaimed the mother, thoroughly aroused.

"From us, from the people--they get everything from us."

"Ye-es," drawled the peasant. "It's a wheel." He bent his head toward

the door, listening attentively. "They're coming," he said softly.

"Who?"

"Our people, I suppose."

His wife entered. A freckled peasant, stooping, strode into the hut

after her. He threw his cap into a corner, and quickly went up to their

host.

"Well?"

The host nodded in confirmation.

"Stepan," said the wife, standing at the oven, "maybe our guest wants to

eat something."

"No, thank you, my dear."

The freckled peasant moved toward the mother and said quietly, in a

broken voice:

"Now, then, permit me to introduce myself to you. My name is Pyotr

Yegorov Ryabinin, nicknamed Shilo--the Awl. I understand something about

your affairs. I can read and write. I'm no fool, so to speak." He

grasped the hand the mother extended to him, and wringing it, turned to

the master of the house.

"There, Stepan, see, Varvara Nikolayevna is a good lady, true. But in

regard to all this, she says it is nonsense, nothing but dreams. Boys

and different students, she says, muddle the people's mind with

absurdities. However, you saw just now a sober, steady man, as he ought

to be, a peasant, arrested. Now, here is she, an elderly woman, and as

to be seen, not of blue blood. Don't be offended--what's your station in

life?"

He spoke quickly and distinctly, without taking breath. His little beard

shook nervously, and his dark eyes, which he screwed up, rapidly scanned

the mother's face and figure. Ragged, crumpled, his hair disheveled, he

seemed just to have come from a fight, in which he had vanquished his

opponent, and still to be flushed with the joy of victory. He pleased

the mother with his sprightliness and his simple talk, which at once

went straight to the point. She gave him a kind look as she answered his

question. He once more shook her hand vigorously, and laughed softly.

"You see, Stepan, it's a clean business, an excellent business. I told

you so. This is the way it is: the people, so to speak, are beginning to

take things into their own hands. And as to the lady--she won't tell you

the truth; it's harmful to her. I respect her, I must say; she's a good

person, and wishes us well--well, a little bit, and provided it won't

harm her any. But the people want to go straight, and they fear no loss

and no harm--you see?--all life is harmful to them; they have no place

to turn to; they have nothing all around except 'Stop!' which is shouted

at them from all sides."

"I see," said Stepan, nodding and immediately adding: "She's uneasy

about her baggage."

Pyotr gave the mother a shrewd wink, and again reassured her:

"Don't be uneasy; it's all right. Everything will be all right, mother.

Your valise is in my house. Just now when he told me about you--that you

also participate in this work and that you know that man--I said to him:

'Take care, Stepan! In such a serious business you must keep your mouth

shut.' Well, and you, too, mother, seem to have scented us when we stood

near you. The faces of honest people can be told at once. Not many of

them walk the streets, to speak frankly. Your valise is in my house." He

sat down alongside of her and looked entreatingly into her eyes. "If you

wish to empty it we'll help you, with pleasure. We need books."

"She wants to give us everything," remarked Stepan.

"First rate, mother! We'll find a place for all of it." He jumped to his

feet, burst into a laugh, and quickly pacing up and down the room said

contentedly: "The matter is perfectly simple: in one place it snaps, and

in another it is tied up. Very well! And the newspaper, mother, is a

good one, and does its work--it peels the people's eyes open; it's

unpleasant to the masters. I do carpentry work for a lady about five

miles from here--a good woman, I must admit. She gives me various books,

sometimes very simple books. I read them over--I might as well fall

asleep. In general we're thankful to her. But I showed her one book and

a number of a newspaper; she was somewhat offended. 'Drop it, Pyotr!'

she said. 'Yes, this,' she says, 'is the work of senseless youngsters;

from such a business your troubles can only increase; prison and Siberia

for this,' she says."

He grew abruptly silent, reflected for a moment, and asked: "Tell me,

mother, this man--is he a relative of yours?"

"A stranger."

Pyotr threw his head back and laughed noiselessly, very well satisfied

with something. To the mother, however, it seemed the very next instant

that, in reference to Rybin, the word "stranger" was not in place; it

jarred upon her.

"I'm not a relative of his; but I've known him for a long time, and I

look up to him as to an elder brother."

She was pained and displeased not to find the word she wanted, and she

could not suppress a quiet groan. A sad stillness pervaded the hut.

Pyotr leaned his head upon one shoulder; his little beard, narrow and

sharp, stuck out comically on one side, and gave his shadow swinging on

the wall the appearance of a man sticking out his tongue teasingly.

Stepan sat with his elbows on the table, and beat a tattoo on the

boards. His wife stood at the oven without stirring; the mother felt her

look riveted upon herself and often glanced at the woman's face--oval,

swarthy, with a straight nose, and a chin cut off short; her dark and

thick eyebrows joined sternly, her eyelids drooped, and from under them

her greenish eyes shone sharply and intently.

"A friend, that is to say," said Pyotr quietly. "He has character,

indeed he has; he esteems himself highly, as he ought to; he has put a

high price on himself, as he ought to. There's a man, Tatyana! You

say----"

"Is he married?" Tatyana interposed, and compressed the thin lips of her

small mouth.

"He's a widower," answered the mother sadly.

"That's why he's so brave," remarked Tatyana. Her utterance was low and

difficult. "A married man like him wouldn't go--he'd be afraid."

"And I? I'm married and everything, and yet--" exclaimed Pyotr.

"Enough!" she said without looking at him and twisting her lips. "Well,

what are you? You only talk a whole lot, and on rare occasions you read

a book. It doesn't do people much good for you and Stepan to whisper to

each other on the corners."

"Why, sister, many people hear me," quietly retorted the peasant,

offended. "I act as a sort of yeast here. It isn't fair in you to speak

that way."

Stepan looked at his wife silently and again drooped his head.

"And why should a peasant marry?" asked Tatyana. "He needs a worker,

they say. What work?"

"You haven't enough? You want more?" Stepan interjected dully.

"But what sense is there in the work we do? We go half-hungry from day

to day anyhow. Children are born; there's no time to look after them on

account of the work that doesn't give us bread." She walked up to the

mother, sat down next to her, and spoke on stubbornly, no plaint nor

mourning in her voice. "I had two children; one, when he was two years

old, was boiled to death in hot water; the other was born dead--from

this thrice-accursed work. Such a happy life! I say a peasant has no

business to marry. He only binds his hands. If he were free he would

work up to a system of life needed by everybody. He would come out

directly and openly for the truth. Am I right, mother?"

"You are. You're right, my dear. Otherwise we can't conquer life."

"Have you a husband?"

"He died. I have a son."

"And where is he? Does he live with you?"

"He's in prison." The mother suddenly felt a calm pride in these words,

usually painful to her. "This is the second time--all because he came to

understand God's truth and sowed it openly without sparing himself. He's

a young man, handsome, intelligent; he planned a newspaper, and gave

Mikhaïl Ivanovich a start on his way, although he's only half of

Mikhaïl's age. Now they're going to try my son for all this, and

sentence him; and he'll escape from Siberia and continue with his work."

Her pride waxed as she spoke. It created the image of a hero, and

demanded expression in words. The mother needed an offset--something

fine and bright--to balance the gloomy incident she had witnessed that

day, with its senseless horror and shameless cruelty. Instinctively

yielding to this demand of a healthy soul, she reached out for

everything she had seen that was pure and shining and heaped it into one

dazzling, cleansing fire.

"Many such people have already been born, more and more are being born,

and they will all stand up for the freedom of the people, for the truth,

to the very end of their lives."

She forgot precaution, and although she did not mention names, she told

everything known to her of the secret work for the emancipation of the

people from the chains of greed. In depicting the personalities she put

all her force into her words, all the abundance of love awakened in her

so late by her rousing experiences. And she herself became warmly

enamored of the images rising up in her memory, illumined and beautified

by her feeling.

"The common cause advances throughout the world in all the cities.

There's no measuring the power of the good people. It keeps growing and

growing, and it will grow until the hour of our victory, until the

resurrection of truth."

Her voice flowed on evenly, the words came to her readily, and she

quickly strung them, like bright, varicolored beads, on strong threads

of her desire to cleanse her heart of the blood and filth of that day.

She saw that the three people were as if rooted to the spot where her

speech found them, and that they looked at her without stirring. She

heard the intermittent breathing of the woman sitting by her side, and

all this magnified the power of her faith in what she said, and in what

she promised these people.

"All those who have a hard life, whom want and injustice crush--it's the

rich and the servitors of the rich who have overpowered them. The whole

people ought to go out to meet those who perish in the dungeons for

them, and endure mortal torture. Without gain to themselves they show

where the road to happiness for all people lies. They frankly admit it

is a hard road, and they force no one to follow them. But once you take

your position by their side you will never leave them. You will see it

is the true, the right road. With such persons the people may travel.

Such persons will not be reconciled to small achievements; they will not

stop until they will vanquish all deceit, all evil and greed. They will

not fold their hands until the people are welded into one soul, until

the people will say in one voice: 'I am the ruler, and I myself will

make the laws equal for all.'"

She ceased from exhaustion, and looked about. Her words would not be

wasted here, she felt assured. The silence lasted for a minute, while

the peasants regarded her as if expecting more. Pyotr stood in the

middle of the hut, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes screwed

up, a smile quivering on his freckled face. Stepan was leaning one hand

on the table; with his neck and entire body forward, he seemed still to

be listening. A shadow on his face gave it more finish. His wife,

sitting beside the mother, bent over, her elbows on her knees, and

studied her feet.

"That's how it is," whispered Pyotr, and carefully sat on the bench,

shaking his head.

Stepan slowly straightened himself, looked at his wife, and threw his

hands in the air, as if grasping for something.

"If a man takes up this work," he began thoughtfully in a moderated

voice, "then his entire soul is needed."

Pyotr timidly assented:

"Yes, he mustn't look back."

"The work has spread very widely," continued Stepan.

"Over the whole earth," added Pyotr.

They both spoke like men walking in darkness, groping for the way with

their feet. The mother leaned against the wall, and throwing back her

head listened to their careful utterances. Tatyana arose, looked around,

and sat down again. Her green eyes gleamed dryly as she looked into the

peasants' faces with dissatisfaction and contempt.

"It seems you've been through a lot of misery," she said, suddenly

turning to the mother.

"I have."

"You speak well. You draw--you draw the heart after your talk. It makes

me think, it makes me think, 'God! If I could only take a peep at such

people and at life through a chink!' How does one live? What life has

one? The life of sheep. Here am I; I can read and write; I read books, I

think a whole lot. Sometimes I don't even sleep the entire night because

I think. And what sense is there in it? If I don't think, my existence

is a purposeless existence; and if I do, it is also purposeless. And

everything seems purposeless. There are the peasants, who work and

tremble over a piece of bread for their homes, and they have nothing. It

hurts them, enrages them; they drink, fight, and work again--work, work,

work. But what comes of it? Nothing."

She spoke with scorn in her eyes and in her voice, which was low and

even, but at times broke off like a taut thread overstrained. The

peasants were silent, the wind glided by the window panes, buzzed

through the straw of the roofs, and at times whined softly down the

chimney. A dog barked, and occasional drops of rain pattered on the

window. Suddenly the light flared in the lamp, dimmed, but in a second

sprang up again even and bright.

"I listened to your talk, and I see what people live for now. It's so

strange--I hear you, and I think, 'Why, I know all this.' And yet, until

you said it, I hadn't heard such things, and I had no such thoughts.

Yes."

"I think we ought to take something to eat, and put out the lamp," said

Stepan, somberly and slowly. "People will notice that at the Chumakovs'

the light burned late. It's nothing for us, but it might turn out bad

for the guest."

Tatyana arose and walked to the oven.

"Ye-es," Pyotr said softly, with a smile. "Now, friend, keep your ears

pricked. When the papers appear among the people----"

"I'm not speaking of myself. If they arrest me, it's no great matter."

The wife came up to the table and asked Stepan to make room.

He arose and watched her spread the table as he stood to one side.

"The price of fellows of our kind is a nickel a bundle, a hundred in a

bundle," he said with a smile.

The mother suddenly pitied him. He now pleased her more.

"You don't judge right, host," she said. "A man mustn't agree to the

price put upon him by people from the outside, who need nothing of him

except his blood. You, knowing yourself within, must put your own

estimate on yourself--your price, not for your enemies, but for your

friends."

"What friends have we?" the peasant exclaimed softly. "Up to the first

piece of bread."

"And I say that the people have friends."

"Yes, they have, but not here--that's the trouble," Stepan deliberated.

"Well, then create them here."

Stepan reflected a while. "We'll try."

"Sit down at the table," Tatyana invited her.

At supper, Pyotr, who had been subdued by the talk of the mother and

appeared to be at a loss, began to speak again with animation:

"Mother, you ought to get out of here as soon as possible, to escape

notice. Go to the next station, not to the city--hire the post horses."

"Why? I'm going to see her off!" said Stepan.

"You mustn't. In case anything happens and they ask you whether she

slept in your house--'She did.' 'When did she go?' 'I saw her off.'

'Aha! You did? Please come to prison!' Do you understand? And no one

ought to be in a hurry to get into prison; everybody's turn will come.

'Even the Czar will die,' as the saying goes. But the other way: she

simply spent the night in your house, hired horses, and went away. And

what of it? Somebody passing through the village sleeps with somebody in

the village. There's nothing in that."

"Where did you learn to be afraid, Pyotr?" Tatyana scoffed.

"A man must know everything, friend!" Pyotr exclaimed, striking his

knee--"know how to fear, know how to be brave. You remember how a

policeman lashed Vaganov for that newspaper? Now you'll not persuade

Vaganov for any amount of money to take a book in his hand. Yes; you

believe me, mother, I'm a sharp fellow for every sort of a

trick--everybody knows it. I'm going to scatter these books and papers

for you in the best shape and form, as much as you please. Of course,

the people here are not educated; they've been intimidated. However, the

times squeeze a man and wide open go his eyes, 'What's the matter?' And

the book answers him in a perfectly simple way: 'That's what's the

matter--Think! Unite! Nothing else is left for you to do!' There are

examples of men who can't read or write and can understand more than the

educated ones--especially if the educated ones have their stomachs full.

I go about here everywhere; I see much. Well? It's possible to live; but

you want brains and a lot of cleverness in order not to sit down in the

cesspool at once. The authorities, too, smell a rat, as though a cold

wind were blowing on them from the peasants. They see the peasant smiles

very little, and altogether is not very kindly disposed and wants to

disaccustom himself to the authorities. The other day in Smolyakov, a

village not far from here, they came to extort the taxes; and your

peasants got stubborn and flew into a passion. The police commissioner

said straight out: 'Oh, you damned scoundrels! why, this is disobedience

to the Czar!' There was one little peasant there, Spivakin, and says he:

'Off with you to the evil mother with your Czar! What kind of a Czar is

he if he pulls the last shirt off your body?' That's how far it went,

mother. Of course, they snatched Spivakin off to prison. But the word

remained, and even the little boys know it. It lives! It shouts! And

perhaps in our days the word is worth more than a man. People are

stupefied and deadened by their absorption in breadwinning. Yes."

Pyotr did not eat, but kept on talking in a quick whisper, his dark,

roguish eyes gleaming merrily. He lavishly scattered before the mother

innumerable little observations on the village life--they rolled from

him like copper coins from a full purse.

Stepan several times reminded him: "Why don't you eat?" Pyotr would then

seize a piece of bread and a spoon and fall to talking and sputtering

again like a goldfinch. Finally, after the meal, he jumped to his feet

and announced:

"Well, it's time for me to go home. Good-by, mother!" and he shook her

hand and nodded his head. "Maybe we shall never see each other again. I

must say to you that all this is very good--to meet you and hear your

speeches--very good! Is there anything in your valise beside the printed

matter? A shawl? Excellent! A shawl, remember, Stepan. He'll bring you

the valise at once. Come, Stepan. Good-by. I wish everything good to

you."

After he had gone the crawling sound of the roaches became audible in

the hut, the blowing of the wind over the roof and its knocking against

the door in the chimney. A fine rain dripped monotonously on the window.

Tatyana prepared a bed for the mother on the bench with clothing brought

from the oven and the storeroom.

"A lively man!" remarked the mother.

The hostess looked at her sidewise.

"A light fellow," she answered. "He rattles on and rattles on; you can't

but hear the rattling at a great distance."

"And how is your husband?" asked the mother.

"So so. A good peasant; he doesn't drink; we live peacefully. So so.

Only he has a weak character." She straightened herself, and after a

pause asked:

"Why, what is it that's wanted nowadays? What's wanted is that the

people should be stirred up to revolt. Of course! Everybody thinks about

it, but privately, for himself. And what's necessary is that he should

speak out aloud. Some one person must be the first to decide to do it."

She sat down on the bench and suddenly asked: "Tell me, do young ladies

also occupy themselves with this? Do they go about with the workingmen

and read? Aren't they squeamish and afraid?" She listened attentively to

the mother's reply and fetched a deep sigh; then drooping her eyelids

and inclining her head, she said: "In one book I read the words

'senseless life.' I understood them very well at once. I know such a

life. Thoughts there are, but they're not connected, and they stray like

stupid sheep without a shepherd. They stray and stray, with no one to

bring them together. There's no understanding in people of what must be

done. That's what a senseless life is. I'd like to run away from it

without even looking around--such a severe pang one suffers when one

understands something!"

The mother perceived the pang in the dry gleam of the woman's green

eyes, in her wizened face, in her voice. She wanted to pet and soothe

her.

"You understand, my dear, what to do----"

Tatyana interrupted her softly:

"A person must be able-- The bed's ready for you. Lie down and sleep."

She went over to the oven and remained standing there erect, in silence,

sternly centered in herself. The mother lay down without undressing. She

began to feel the weariness in her bones and groaned softly. Tatyana

walked up to the table, extinguished the lamp, and when darkness

descended on the hut she resumed speech in her low, even voice, which

seemed to erase something from the flat face of the oppressive darkness.

"You do not pray? I, too, think there is no God, there are no miracles.

All these things were contrived to frighten us, to make us stupid."

The mother turned about on the bench uneasily; the dense darkness looked

straight at her from the window, and the scarcely audible crawling of

the roaches persistently disturbed the quiet. She began to speak almost

in a whisper and fearfully:

"In regard to God, I don't know; but I do believe in Christ, in the

Little Father. I believe in his words, 'Love thy neighbor as thyself.'

Yes, I believe in them." And suddenly she asked in perplexity: "But if

there is a God, why did He withdraw his good power from us? Why did He

allow the division of people into two worlds? Why, if He is merciful,

does He permit human torture--the mockery of one man by another, all

kinds of evil and beastliness?"

Tatyana was silent. In the darkness the mother saw the faint outline of

her straight figure--gray on the black background. She stood motionless.

The mother closed her eyes in anguish. Then the groaning, cold voice

sullenly broke in upon the stillness again:

"The death of my children I will never forgive, neither God nor man--I

will never forgive--_never_!"

Nilovna uneasily rose from her bed; her heart understood the mightiness

of the pain that evoked such words.

"You are young; you will still have children," she said kindly.

The woman did not answer immediately. Then she whispered:

"No, no. I'm spoiled. The doctor says I'll never be able to have a child

again."

A mouse ran across the floor, something cracked--a flash of sound

flaring up in the noiselessness. The autumn rain again rustled on the

thatch like light thin fingers running over the roof. Large drops of

water dismally fell to the ground, marking the slow course of the autumn

night. Hollow steps on the street, then on the porch, awoke the mother

from a heavy slumber. The door opened carefully.

"Tatyana!" came the low call. "Are you in bed already?"

"No."

"Is she asleep?"

"It seems she is."

A light flared up, trembled, and sank into the darkness.

The peasant walked over to the mother's bed, adjusted the sheepskin over

her, and wrapped up her feet. The attention touched the mother in its

simplicity. She closed her eyes again and smiled. Stepan undressed in

silence, crept up to the loft, and all became quiet.

CHAPTER XII

The mother lay motionless, with ears strained in the drowsy stillness,

and before her in the darkness wavered Rybin's face covered with blood.

In the loft a dry whisper could be heard.

"You see what sort of people go into this work? Even elderly people who

have drunk the cup of misery to the bottom, who have worked, and for

whom it is time to rest. And there they are! But you are young,

sensible! Ah, Stepan!"

The thick, moist voice of the peasant responded:

"Such an affair--you mustn't take it up without thinking over it. Just

wait a little while!"

"I've heard you say so before." The sounds dropped, and rose again. The

voice of Stepan rang out:

"You must do it this way--at first you must take each peasant aside and

speak to him by himself--for instance, to Makov Alesha, a lively

man--can read and write--was wronged by the police; Shorin Sergey, also

a sensible peasant; Knyazev, an honest, bold man, and that'll do to

begin with. Then we'll get a group together, we look about us--yes. We

must learn how to find her; and we ourselves must take a look at the

people about whom she spoke. I'll shoulder my ax and go off to the city

myself, making out I'm going there to earn money by splitting wood. You

must proceed carefully in this matter. She's right when she says that

the price a man has is according to his own estimate of himself--and

this is an affair in which you must set a high value on yourself when

once you take it up. There's that peasant! See! You can put him even

before God, not to speak of before a police commissioner. He won't

yield. He stands for his own firmly--up to his knees in it. And Nikita,

why his honor was suddenly pricked--a marvel? No. If the people will set

out in a friendly way to do something together, they'll draw everybody

after them."

"Friendly! They beat a man in front of your eyes, and you stand with

your mouths wide open."

"You just wait a little while. He ought to thank God we didn't beat him

ourselves, that man. Yes, indeed. Sometimes the authorities compel you

to beat, and you do beat. Maybe you weep inside yourself with pity, but

still you beat. People don't dare to decline from beastliness--they'll

be killed themselves for it. They command you, 'Be what I want you to

be--a wolf, a pig'--but to be a man is prohibited. And a bold man

they'll get rid of--send to the next world. No. You must contrive for

many to get bold at once, and for all to arise suddenly."

He whispered for a long time, now lowering his voice so that the mother

scarcely could hear, and now bursting forth powerfully. Then the woman

would stop him. "S-sh, you'll wake her."

The mother fell into a heavy dreamless sleep.

Tatyana awakened her in the early twilight, when the dusk still peered

through the window with blank eyes, and when brazen sounds of the church

bell floated and melted over the village in the gray, cold stillness.

"I have prepared the samovar. Take some tea or you'll be cold if you go

out immediately after getting up."

Stepan, combing his tangled beard, asked the mother solicitously how to

find her in the city. To-day the peasant's face seemed more finished to

her. While they drank tea he remarked, smiling:

"How wonderfully things happen!"

"What?" asked Tatyana.

"Why, this acquaintance--so simply."

The mother said thoughtfully, but confidently:

"In this affair there's a marvelous simplicity in everything."

The host and hostess restrained themselves from demonstrativeness in

parting with her; they were sparing of words, but lavish in little

attentions for her comfort.

Sitting in the post, the mother reflected that this peasant would begin

to work carefully, noiselessly, like a mole, without cease, and that at

his side the discontented voice of his wife would always sound, and the

dry burning gleam in her green eyes would never die out of her so long

as she cherished the revengeful wolfish anguish of a mother for lost

children.

The mother recalled Rybin--his blood, his face, his burning eyes, his

words. Her heart was compressed again with a bitter feeling of

impotence; and along the entire road to the city the powerful figure of

black-bearded Mikhaïl with his torn shirt, his hands bound behind his

back, his disheveled head, clothed in wrath and faith in his truth,

stood out before her on the drab background of the gray day. And as she

regarded the figure, she thought of the numberless villages timidly

pressed to the ground; of the people, faint-heartedly and secretly

awaiting the coming of truth; and of the thousands of people who

senselessly and silently work their whole lifetime without awaiting the

coming of anything.

Life represented itself to her as an unplowed, hilly field, which mutely

awaits the workers and promises a harvest to free and honest hands:

"Fertilize me with seeds of reason and truth; I will return them to you

a hundredfold."

When from afar she saw the roofs and spires of the city, a warm joy

animated and eased her perturbed, worn heart. The preoccupied faces of

those people flashed up in her memory who, from day to day, without

cease, in perfect confidence kindle the fire of thought and scatter the

sparks over the whole earth. Her soul was flooded by the serene desire

to give these people her entire force, and--doubly the love of a mother,

awakened and animated by their thoughts.

At home Nikolay opened the door for the mother. He was disheveled and

held a book in his hand.

"Already?" he exclaimed joyfully. "You've returned very quickly. Well,

I'm glad, very glad."

His eyes blinked kindly and briskly behind his glasses. He quickly

helped her off with her wraps, and said with an affectionate smile:

"And here in my place, as you see, there was a search last night. And I

wondered what the reason for it could possibly be--whether something

hadn't happened to you. But you were not arrested. If they had arrested

you they wouldn't have let me go either."

He led her into the dining room, and continued with animation: "However,

they suggested that I should be discharged from my position. That

doesn't distress me. I was sick, anyway, of counting the number of

horseless peasants, and ashamed to receive money for it, too; for the

money actually comes from them. It would have been awkward for me to

leave the position of my own accord. I am under obligations to the

comrades in regard to work. And now the matter has found its own

solution. I'm satisfied!"

The mother sat down and looked around. One would have supposed that some

powerful man in a stupid fit of insolence had knocked the walls of the

house from the outside until everything inside had been jolted down. The

portraits were scattered on the floor; the wall paper was torn away and

stuck out in tufts; a board was pulled out of the flooring; a window

sill was ripped away; the floor by the oven was strewn with ashes. The

mother shook her head at the sight of this familiar picture.

"They wanted to show that they don't get money for nothing," remarked

Nikolay.

On the table stood a cold samovar, unwashed dishes, sausages, and cheese

on paper, along with plates, crumbs of bread, books, and coals from the

samovar. The mother smiled. Nikolay also laughed in embarrassment,

following the look of her eyes.

"It was I who didn't waste time in completing the picture of the upset.

But never mind, Nilovna, never mind! I think they're going to come

again. That's the reason I didn't pick it all up. Well, how was your

trip?"

The mother started at the question. Rybin arose before her; she felt

guilty at not having told of him immediately. Bending over a chair, she

moved up to Nikolay and began her narrative. She tried to preserve her

calm in order not to omit something as a result of excitement.

"They caught him!"

A quiver shot across Nikolay's face.

"They did? How?"

The mother stopped his questions with a gesture of her hand, and

continued as if she were sitting before the very face of justice and

bringing in a complaint regarding the torture of a man. Nikolay threw

himself back in his chair, grew pale, and listened, biting his lips. He

slowly removed his glasses, put them on the table, and ran his hand over

his face as if wiping away invisible cobwebs. The mother had never seen

him wear so austere an expression.

When she concluded he arose, and for a minute paced the floor in

silence, his fists thrust deep into his pockets. Conquering his

agitation he looked almost calmly with a hard gleam in his eyes into the

face of the mother, which was covered with silent tears.

"Nilovna, we mustn't waste time! Let us try, dear comrade, to take

ourselves in hand." Then he remarked through his teeth:

"He must be a remarkable fellow--such nobility! It'll be hard for him in

prison. Men like him feel unhappy there." Stepping in front of the

mother he exclaimed in a ringing voice: "Of course, all the

commissioners and sergeants are nothings. They are sticks in the hands

of a clever villain, a trainer of animals. But I would kill an animal

for allowing itself to be turned into a brute!" He restrained his

excitement, which, however, made itself felt to the mother's

perceptions. Again he strode through the room, and spoke in wrath: "See

what horror! A gang of stupid people, protesting their pernicious power

over the people, beat, stifle, oppress everybody. Savagery grows apace;

cruelty becomes the law of life. A whole nation is depraved. Think of

it! One part beats and turns brute; from immunity to punishment, sickens

itself with a voluptuous greed of torture--that disgusting disease of

slaves licensed to display all the power of slavish feelings and cattle

habits. Others are poisoned with the desire for vengeance. Still others,

beaten down to stupidity, become dumb and blind. They deprave the

nation, the whole nation!" He stopped, leaning his elbows against the

doorpost. He clasped his head in both hands, and was silent, his teeth

set.

"You involuntarily turn a beast yourself in this beastly life!"

Smiling sadly, he walked up to her, and bending over her asked, pressing

her hand: "Where is your valise?"

"In the kitchen."

"A spy is standing at our gate. We won't be able to get such a big mass

of papers out of the way unnoticed. There's no place to hide them in and

I think they'll come again to-night. I don't want you to be arrested.

So, however sorry we may be for the lost labor, let's burn the papers."

"What?"

"Everything in the valise!"

She finally understood; and though sad, her pride in her success brought

a complacent smile to her face.

"There's nothing in it--no leaflets." With gradually increasing

animation she told how she had placed them in the hands of sympathetic

peasants after Rybin's departure. Nikolay listened, at first with an

uneasy frown, then in surprise, and finally exclaimed, interrupting her

story:

"Say, that's capital! Nilovna, do you know--" He stammered, embarrassed,

and pressing her hand, exclaimed quietly: "You touch me so by your faith

in people, by your faith in the cause of their emancipation! You have

such a good soul! I simply love you as I didn't love my own mother!"

Embracing his neck, she burst into happy sobs, and pressed his head to

her lips.

"Maybe," he muttered, agitated and embarrassed by the newness of his

feeling, "maybe I'm speaking nonsense; but, upon my honest word, you are

a beautiful person, Nilovna--yes!"

"My darling, I love you, too; and I love you all with my whole soul,

every drop of my blood!" she said, choking with a wave of hot joy.

The two voices blended into one throbbing speech, subdued and pulsating

with the great feeling that was seizing the people.

"Such a large, soft power is in you; it draws the heart toward you

imperceptibly. How brightly you describe people! How well you see them!"

"I see your life; I understand it, my dear!"

"One loves you. And it's such a marvelous thing to love a person--it's

so good, you know!"

"It is you, you who raise the people from the dead to life again; you!"

the mother whispered hotly, stroking his head. "My dear, I think I see

there's much work for you, much patience needed. Your power must not be

wasted. It's so necessary for life. Listen to what else happened: there

was a woman there, the wife of that man----"

Nikolay sat near her, his happy face bent aside in embarrassment, and

stroked his hair. But soon he turned around again, and looking at the

mother, listened greedily to her simple and clear story.

"A miracle! Every possibility of your getting into prison and

suddenly-- Yes, it's evident that the peasants, too, are beginning to

stir. After all, it's natural. We ought to get special people for the

villages. People! We haven't enough--nowhere. Life demands hundreds of

hands!"

"Now, if Pasha could be free--and Andriusha," said the mother softly.

Nikolay looked at her and drooped his head.

"You see, Nilovna, it'll be hard for you to hear; but I'll say it,

anyway--I know Pavel well; he won't leave prison. He wants to be tried;

he wants to rise in all his height. He won't give up a trial, and he

needn't either. He will escape from Siberia."

The mother sighed and answered softly:

"Well, he knows what's best for the cause."

Nikolay quickly jumped to his feet, suddenly seized with joy again.

"Thank you, Nilovna! I've just lived through a magnificent moment--maybe

the best moment of my life. Thank you! Now, come, let's give each other

a good, strong kiss!"

They embraced, looking into each other's eyes. And they gave each other

firm, comradely kisses.

"That's good!" he said softly.

The mother unclasped her hands from about his neck and laughed quietly

and happily.

"Um!" said Nikolay the next minute. "If your peasant there would hurry

up and come here! You see, we must be sure to write a leaflet about

Rybin for the village. It won't hurt him once he's come out so boldly,

and it will help the cause. I'll surely do it to-day. Liudmila will

print it quickly. But then arises the question--how will it get to the

village?"

"I'll take it!"

"No, thank you!" Nikolay exclaimed quietly. "I'm wondering whether

Vyesovshchikov won't do for it. Shall I speak to him?"

"Yes; suppose you try and instruct him."

"What'll I do then?"

"Don't worry!"

Nikolay sat down to write, while the mother put the table in order, from

time to time casting a look at him. She saw how his pen trembled in his

hand. It traveled along the paper in straight lines. Sometimes the skin

on his neck quivered; he threw back his head and shut his eyes. All this

moved her.

"Execute them!" she muttered under her breath. "Don't pity the

villains!"

"There! It's ready!" he said, rising. "Hide the paper somewhere on your

body. But know that when the gendarmes come they'll search you, too!"

"The dogs take them!" she answered calmly.

In the evening Dr. Ivan Danilovich came.

"What's gotten into the authorities all of a sudden?" he said, running

about the room. "There were seven searches last night. Where's the

patient?"

"He left yesterday. To-day, you see, Saturday, he reads to working

people. He couldn't bring it over himself to omit the reading."

"That's stupid--to sit at readings with a fractured skull!"

"I tried to prove it to him, but unsuccessfully."

"He wanted to do a bit of boasting before the comrades," observed the

mother. "Look! I've already shed my blood!"

The physician looked at her, made a fierce face, and said with set

teeth:

"Ugh! ugh! you bloodthirsty person!"

"Well, Ivan, you've nothing to do here, and we're expecting guests. Go

away! Nilovna, give him the paper."

"Another paper?"

"There, take it and give it to the printer."

"I've taken it; I'll deliver it. Is that all?"

"That's all. There's a spy at the gate."

"I noticed. At my door, too. Good-by! Good-by, you fierce woman! And do

you know, friends, a squabble in a cemetery is a fine thing after all!

The whole city's talking about it. It stirs the people up and compels

them to think. Your article on that subject was excellent, and it came

in time. I always said that a good fight is better than a bad peace."

"All right. Go away now!"

"You're polite! Let's shake hands, Nilovna. And that fellow--he

certainly behaved stupidly. Do you know where he lives?"

Nikolay gave him the address.

"I must go to him to-morrow. He's a fine fellow, eh?"

"Very!"

"We must keep him alive; he has good brains. It's from just such fellows

that the real proletarian intellectuals ought to grow up--men to take

our places when we leave for the region where evidently there are no

class antagonisms. But, after all, who knows?"

"You've taken to chattering, Ivan."

"I feel happy, that's why. Well, I'm going! So you're expecting prison?

I hope you get a good rest there!"

"Thank you, I'm not tired!"

The mother listened to their conversation. Their solicitude in regard to

the workingmen was pleasant to her; and, as always, the calm activity of

these people which did not forsake them even before the gates of the

prison, astonished her.

After the physician left, Nikolay and the mother conversed quietly while

awaiting their evening visitors. Then Nikolay told her at length of his

comrades living in exile; of those who had already escaped and continued

their work under assumed names. The bare walls of the room echoed the

low sounds of his voice, as if listening in incredulous amazement to the

stories of modest heroes who disinterestedly devoted all their powers to

the great cause of liberty.

A shadow kindly enveloped the woman, warming her heart with love for the

unseen people, who in her imagination united into one huge person, full

of inexhaustible, manly force. This giant slowly but incessantly strides

over the earth, cleansing it, laying bare before the eyes of the people

the simple and clear truth of life--the great truth that raises humanity

from the dead, welcomes all equally, and promises all alike freedom from

greed, from wickedness, and falsehood, the three monsters which enslaved

and intimidated the whole world. The image evoked in the mother's soul a

feeling similar to that with which she used to stand before an ikon.

After she had offered her joyful, grateful prayer, the day had then

seemed lighter than the other days of her life. Now she forgot those

days. But the feeling left by them had broadened, had become brighter

and better, had grown more deeply into her soul. It was more keenly

alive and burned more luminously.

"But the gendarmes aren't coming!" Nikolay exclaimed suddenly,

interrupting his story.

The mother looked at him, and after a pause answered in vexation:

"Oh, well, let them go to the dogs!"

"Of course! But it's time for you to go to bed, Nilovna. You must be

desperately tired. You're wonderfully strong, I must say. So much

commotion and disturbance, and you live through it all so lightly. Only

your hair is turning gray very quickly. Now go and rest."

They pressed each other's hand and parted.

CHAPTER XIII

The mother fell quickly into a calm sleep, and rose early in the

morning, awakened by a subdued tap at the kitchen door. The knock was

incessant and patiently persistent. It was still dark and quiet, and the

rapping broke in alarmingly on the stillness. Dressing herself rapidly,

she walked out into the kitchen, and standing at the door asked:

"Who's there?"

"I," answered an unfamiliar voice.

"Who?"

"Open." The quiet word was spoken in entreaty.

The mother lifted the hook, pushed the door with her foot, and Ignaty

entered, saying cheerfully:

"Well, so I'm not mistaken. I'm at the right place."

He was spattered with mud up to his belt. His face was gray, his eyes

fallen.

"We've gotten into trouble in our place," he whispered, locking the door

behind him.

"I know it."

The reply astonished the young man. He blinked and asked:

"How? Where from?"

She explained in a few rapid words, and asked:

"Did they take the other comrades, too?"

"They weren't there. They had gone off to be recruited. Five were

captured, including Rybin."

He snuffled and said, smiling:

"And I was left over. I guess they're looking for me. Let them look. I'm

not going back there again, not for anything. There are other people

there yet, some seven young men and a girl. Never mind! They're all

reliable."

"How did you find this place?" The mother smiled.

The door from the room opened quietly.

"I?" Seating himself on a bench and looking around, Ignaty exclaimed:

"They crawled up at night, straight to the tar works. Well, a minute

before they came the forester ran up to us and knocked on the window.

'Look out, boys,' says he, 'they're coming on you.'"

He laughed softly, wiped his face with the flap of his coat, and

continued:

"Well, they can't stun Uncle Mikhaïl even with a hammer. At once he says

to me, 'Ignaty, run away to the city, quick! You remember the elderly

woman.' And he himself writes a note. 'There, go! Good-by, brother.' He

pushed me in the back. I flung out of the hut. I scrambled along on all

fours through the bushes, and I hear them coming. There must have been a

lot of them. You could hear the rustling on all sides, the devils--like

a moose around the tar works. I lay in the bushes. They passed by me.

Then I rose and off I went; and for two nights and a whole day I walked

without stopping. My feet'll ache for a week."

He was evidently satisfied with himself. A smile shone in his hazel

eyes. His full red lips quivered.

"I'll set you up with some tea soon. You wash yourself while I get the

samovar ready."

"I'll give you the note." He raised his leg with difficulty, and

frowning and groaning put his foot on the bench and began to untie the

leg wrappings.

"I got frightened. 'Well,' thinks I, 'I'm a goner.'"

Nikolay appeared at the door. Ignaty in embarrassment dropped his foot

to the floor and wanted to rise, but staggered and fell heavily on the

bench, catching himself with his hands.

"You sit still!" exclaimed the mother.

"How do you do, comrade?" said Nikolay, screwing up his eyes

good-naturedly and nodding his head. "Allow me, I'll help you."

Kneeling on the floor in front of the peasant, he quickly unwound the

dirty, damp wrappings.

"Well!" the fellow exclaimed quietly, pulling back his foot and blinking

in astonishment. He regarded the mother, who said, without paying

attention to his look:

"His legs ought to be rubbed down with alcohol."

"Of course!" said Nikolay.

Ignaty snorted in embarrassment. Nikolay found the note, straightened it

out, looked at it, and handed the gray, crumpled piece of paper to the

mother.

"For you."

"Read it."

"'Mother, don't let the affair go without your attention. Tell the tall

lady not to forget to have them write more for our cause, I beg of you.

Good-by. Rybin.'"

"My darling!" said the mother sadly. "They've already seized him by the

throat, and he----"

Nikolay slowly dropped his hand holding the note.

"That's magnificent!" he said slowly and respectfully. "It both touches

and teaches."

Ignaty looked at them, and quietly shook his bared feet with his dirty

hands. The mother, covering her tearful face, walked up to him with a

basin of water, sat down on the floor, and stretched out her hands to

his feet. But he quickly thrust them under the bench, exclaiming in

fright:

"What are you going to do?"

"Give me your foot, quick!"

"I'll bring the alcohol at once," said Nikolay.

The young man shoved his foot still farther under the bench and mumbled:

"What _are_ you going to do? It's not proper."

Then the mother silently unbared his other foot. Ignaty's round face

lengthened in amazement. He looked around helplessly with his wide-open

eyes.

"Why, it's going to tickle me!"

"You'll be able to bear it," answered the mother, beginning to wash his

feet.

Ignaty snorted aloud, and moving his neck awkwardly looked down at her,

comically drooping his under lip.

"And do you know," she said tremulously, "that they beat Mikhaïl

Ivanovich?"

"What?" the peasant exclaimed in fright.

"Yes; he had been beaten when they led him to the village, and in

Nikolsk the sergeant beat him, the police commissioner beat him in the

face and kicked him till he bled." The mother became silent, overwhelmed

by her recollections.

"They can do it," said the peasant, lowering his brows sullenly. His

shoulders shook. "That is, I fear them like the devils. And the

peasants--didn't the peasants beat him?"

"One beat him. The police commissioner ordered him to. All the others

were so so--they even took his part. 'You mustn't beat him!' they said."

"Um! Yes, yes! The peasants are beginning to realize where a man stands,

and for what he stands."

"There are sensible people there, too."

"Where can't you find sensible people? Necessity! They're everywhere;

but it's hard to get at them. They hide themselves in chinks and

crevices, and suck their hearts out each one for himself. Their

resolution isn't strong enough to make them gather into a group."

Nikolay brought a bottle of alcohol, put coals in the samovar, and

walked away silently. Ignaty accompanied him with a curious look.

"A gentleman?"

"In this business there are no masters; they're all comrades!"

"It's strange to me," said Ignaty with a skeptical but embarrassed

smile.

"What's strange?"

"This: at one end they beat you in the face; at the other they wash your

feet. Is there a middle of any kind?"

The door of the room was flung open and Nikolay, standing on the

threshold, said:

"And in the middle stand the people who lick the hands of those who beat

you in the face and suck the blood of those whose faces are beaten.

That's the middle!"

Ignaty looked at him respectfully, and after a pause said: "That's it!"

The mother sighed. "Mikhaïl Ivanovich also always used to say, 'That's

it!' like an ax blow."

"Nilovna, you're evidently tired. Permit me--I----"

The peasant pulled his feet uneasily.

"That'll do;" said the mother, rising. "Well, Ignaty, now wash

yourself."

The young man arose, shifted his feet about, and stepped firmly on the

floor.

"They seem like new feet. Thank you! Many, many thanks!"

He drew a wry face, his lips trembled, and his eyes reddened. After a

pause, during which he regarded the basin of black water, he whispered

softly:

"I don't even know how to thank you!"

Then they sat down to the table to drink tea. And Ignaty soberly began:

"I was the distributer of literature, a very strong fellow at walking.

Uncle Mikhaïl gave me the job. 'Distribute!' says he; 'and if you get

caught you're alone.'"

"Do many people read?" asked Nikolay.

"All who can. Even some of the rich read. Of course, they don't get it

from us. They'd clap us right into chains if they did! They understand

that this is a slipknot for them in all ages."

"Why a slipknot?"

"What else!" exclaimed Ignaty in amazement. "Why, the peasants are

themselves going to take the land from everyone else. They'll wash it

out with their blood from under the gentry and the rich; that is to say,

they themselves are going to divide it, and divide it so that there

won't be masters or workingmen anymore. How then? What's the use of

getting into a scrap if not for that?"

Ignaty even seemed to be offended. He looked at Nikolay mistrustfully

and skeptically. Nikolay smiled.

"Don't get angry," said the mother jokingly.

Nikolay thoughtfully exclaimed:

"How shall we get the leaflets about Rybin's arrest to the village?"

Ignaty grew attentive.

"I'll speak to Vyesovshchikov to-day."

"Is there a leaflet already?" asked Ignaty.

"Yes."

"Give it to me. I'll take it." Ignaty rubbed his hands at the

suggestion, his eyes flashing. "I know where and how. Let me."

The mother laughed quietly, without looking at him.

"Why, you're tired and afraid, and you said you'd never go there again!"

Ignaty smacked his lips and stroked his curly hair with his broad palm.

"I'm tired; I'll rest; and of course I'm afraid!" His manner was

businesslike and calm. "They beat a man until the blood comes, as you

yourself say--then who wants to be mutilated? But I'll pull through

somehow at night. Never mind! Give me the leaflets; this evening I'll

get on the go." He was silent, thought a while, his eyebrows working.

"I'll go to the forest; I'll hide the literature, and then I'll notify

our fellows: 'Go get it.' That's better. If I myself should distribute

them I might fall into the hands of the police, and it would be a pity

for the leaflets. You must act carefully here. There are not many such

leaflets!"

"And how about your fear?" the mother observed again with a smile. This

curly-haired, robust fellow put her into a good humor by his sincerity,

which sounded in his every word, and shone from his round, determined

face.

"Fear is fear, and business is business!" he answered with a grin. "Why

are you laughing at me, eh? You, too! Why, isn't it natural to be afraid

in this matter? Well, and if it's necessary a man'll go into a fire.

Such an affair, it requires it."

"Ah, you, my child!"

Ignaty, embarrassed, smiled. "Well, there you are--child!" he said.

Nikolay began to speak, all the time looking good-naturedly with

screwed-up eyes at the young peasant.

"You're not going there!"

"Then what'll I do? Where am I to be?" Ignaty asked uneasily.

"Another fellow will go in place of you. And you'll tell him in detail

what to do and how to do it."

"All right!" said Ignaty. But his consent was not given at once, and

then only reluctantly.

"And for you we'll obtain a good passport and make you a forester."

The young fellow quickly threw back his head and asked uneasily:

"But if the peasants come there for wood, or there--in general--what'll

I do? Bind them? That doesn't suit me."

The mother laughed, and Nikolay, too. This again confused and vexed

Ignaty.

"Don't be uneasy!" Nikolay soothed him. "You won't have to bind

peasants. You trust us."

"Well, well," said Ignaty, set at ease, smiling at Nikolay with

confidence and merriness in his eyes. "If you could get me to the

factory. There, they say, the fellows are mighty smart."

A fire seemed to be ever burning in his broad chest, unsteady as yet,

not confident in its own power. It flashed brightly in his eyes, forced

out from within; but suddenly it would nearly expire in fright and

flicker behind the smoke of perplexed alarm and embarrassment.

The mother rose from behind the table, and looking through the window

reflected:

"Ah, life! Five times in the day you laugh and five times you weep. All

right. Well, are you through, Ignaty? Go to bed and sleep."

"But I don't want to."

"Go on, go on!"

"You're stern in this place. Thank you for the tea, for the sugar, for

the kindness."

Lying down in the mother's bed he mumbled, scratching his head:

"Now everything'll smell of tar in your place. Ah, it's all for nothing

all this--plain coddling! I don't want to sleep. You're good people,

yes. It's more than I can understand--as if I'd gotten a hundred

thousand miles away from the village--how he hit it off about the

middle--and in the middle are the people who lick the hands--of those

who beat the faces--um, yes."

And suddenly he gave a loud short snore and dropped off to sleep, with

eyebrows raised high and half-open mouth.

* * * * *

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 to-morrow," she repeated, sighing

involuntarily. "One day still--day after to-morrow."

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 in 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.

The mother quickly walked up to him, not understanding whether fright or

joy agitated her. Liudmila, keeping step with her, said, with irony in

her low voice:

"Yes, really! The assistant prosecuting attorney, Shostak, just now

brought the incriminating acts. In the court they say, quite openly,

that the sentence has already been fixed. What does it mean? Do the

authorities fear that the judges will deal too mercifully with the

enemies of the government? Having so long and so assiduously kept

corrupting their servants, is the government still unassured of their

readiness to be scoundrels?"

Liudmila sat on the sofa, rubbing her lean cheeks with her palms; her

dull eyes burned contemptuous scorn, and her voice filled with growing

wrath.

"You waste your powder for nothing, Liudmila!" Nikolay tried to soothe

her. "They don't hear you."

"Some day I'll compel them to hear me!"

The black circles under her eyes trembled and threw an ominous shadow on

her face. She bit her lips.

"You go against me--that's your right; I'm your enemy. But in defending

your power don't corrupt people; don't compel me to have instinctive

contempt for them; don't dare to poison my soul with your cynicism!"

Nikolay looked at her through his glasses, and screwing up his eyes,

shook his head sadly. But she continued to speak as if those whom she

detested stood before her. The mother listened with strained attention,

understanding nothing, and instinctively repeating to herself one and

the same words, "The trial--the trial will come off in a week!"

She could not picture to herself what it would be like; how the judges

would behave toward Pavel. Her thoughts muddled her brain, covered her

eyes with a gray mist, and plunged her into something sticky, viscid,

chilling and paining her body. The feeling grew, entered her blood, took

possession of her heart, and weighed it down heavily, poisoning in it

all that was alive and bold.

Thus, in a cloud of perplexity and despondency under the load of painful

expectations, she lived through one day, and a second day; but on the

third day Sasha appeared and said to Nikolay:

"Everything is ready--to-day, in an hour!"

"Everything ready? So soon?" He was astonished.

"Why shouldn't everything be ready? The only thing I had to do was to

get a hiding place and clothes for Rybin. All the rest Godun took on

himself. Rybin will have to go through only one ward of the city.

Vyesovshchikov will meet him on the street, all disguised, of course.

He'll throw an overcoat over him, give him a hat, and show him the way.

I'll wait for him, change his clothes and lead him off."

"Not bad! And who's this Godun?"

"You've seen him! You gave talks to the locksmiths in his place."

"Oh, I remember! A droll old man."

"He's a soldier who served his time--a roofer, a man of little

education, but with an inexhaustible fund of hatred for every kind of

violence and for all men of violence. A bit of a philosopher!"

The mother listened in silence to her, and something indistinct slowly

dawned upon her.

"Godun wants to free his nephew--you remember him? You liked Yevchenko,

a blacksmith, quite a dude." Nikolay nodded his head. "Godun has

arranged everything all right. But I'm beginning to doubt his success.

The passages in the prison are used by all the inmates, and I think when

the prisoners see the ladder many will want to run--" She closed her

eyes and was silent for a while. The mother moved nearer to her.

"They'll hinder one another."

They all three stood before the window, the mother behind Nikolay and

Sasha. Their rapid conversation roused in her a still stronger sense of

uneasiness and anxiety.

"I'm going there," the mother said suddenly.

"Why?" asked Sasha.

"Don't go, darling! Maybe you'll get caught. You mustn't!" Nikolay

advised.

The mother looked at them and softly, but persistently, repeated: "No;

I'm going! I'm going!"

They quickly exchanged glances, and Sasha, shrugging her shoulders,

said:

"Of course--hope is tenacious!"

Turning to the mother she took her by the hand, leaned her head on her

shoulder, and said in a new, simple voice, near to the heart of the

mother:

"But I'll tell you after all, mamma, you're waiting in vain--he won't

try to escape!"

"My dear darling!" exclaimed the mother, pressing Sasha to her

tremulously. "Take me; I won't interfere with you; I don't believe it is

possible--to escape!"

"She'll go," said the girl simply to Nikolay.

"That's your affair!" he answered, bowing his head.

"We mustn't be together, mamma. You go to the garden in the lot. From

there you can see the wall of the prison. But suppose they ask you what

you are doing there?"

Rejoiced, the mother answered confidently:

"I'll think of what to say."

"Don't forget that the overseers of the prison know you," said Sasha;

"and if they see you there----"

"They won't see me!" the mother laughed softly.

An hour later she was in the lot by the prison. A sharp wind blew about

her, pulled her dress, and beat against the frozen earth, rocked the old

fence of the garden past which the woman walked, and rattled against the

low wall of the prison; it flung up somebody's shouts from the court,

scattered them in the air, and carried them up to the sky. There the

clouds were racing quickly, little rifts opening in the blue height.

Behind the mother lay the city; in front the cemetery; to the right,

about seventy feet from her, the prison. Near the cemetery a soldier was

leading a horse by a rein, and another soldier tramped noisily alongside

him, shouted, whistled, and laughed. There was no one else near the

prison. On the impulse of the moment the mother walked straight up to

them. As she came near she shouted:

"Soldiers! didn't you see a goat anywhere around here?"

One of them answered:

"No."

She walked slowly past them, toward the fence of the cemetery, looking

slantwise to the right and the back. Suddenly she felt her feet tremble

and grow heavy, as if frozen to the ground. From the corner of the

prison a man came along, walking quickly, like a lamplighter. He was a

stooping man, with a little ladder on his shoulder. The mother, blinking

in fright, quickly glanced at the soldiers; they were stamping their

feet on one spot, and the horse was running around them. She looked at

the ladder--he had already placed it against the wall and was climbing

up without haste. He waved his hand in the courtyard, quickly let

himself down, and disappeared around the corner. That very second the

black head of Mikhaïl appeared on the wall, followed by his entire body.

Another head, with a shaggy hat, emerged alongside of his. Two black

lumps rolled to the ground; one disappeared around the corner; Mikhaïl

straightened himself up and looked about.

"Run, run!" whispered the mother, treading impatiently. Her ears were

humming. Loud shouts were wafted to her. There on the wall appeared a

third head. She clasped her hands in faintness. A light-haired head,

without a beard, shook as if it wanted to tear itself away, but it

suddenly disappeared behind the wall. The shouts came louder and louder,

more and more boisterous. The wind scattered the thin trills of the

whistles through the air. Mikhaïl walked along the wall--there! he was

already beyond it, and traversed the open space between the prison and

the houses of the city. It seemed to her as if he were walking very,

very slowly, that he raised his head to no purpose. "Everyone who sees

his face will remember it forever," and she whispered, "Faster! faster!"

Behind the wall of the prison something slammed, the thin sound of

broken glass was heard. One of the soldiers, planting his feet firmly on

the ground, drew the horse to him, and the horse jumped. The other one,

his fist at his mouth, shouted something in the direction of the prison,

and as he shouted he turned his head sidewise, with his ear cocked.

[Illustration: "'Run, run!' whispered the mother."]

All attention, the mother turned her head in all directions, her eyes

seeing everything, believing nothing. This thing which she had pictured

as terrible and intricate was accomplished with extreme simplicity and

rapidity, and the simpleness of the happenings stupefied her. Rybin was

no longer to be seen--a tall man in a thin overcoat was walking there--a

girl was running along. Three wardens jumped out from a corner of the

prison; they ran side by side, stretching out their right hands. One of

the soldiers rushed in front of them; the other ran around the horse,

unsuccessfully trying to vault on the refractory animal, which kept

jumping about. The whistles incessantly cut the air, their alarming,

desperate shrieks aroused a consciousness of danger in the woman.

Trembling, she walked along the fence of the cemetery, following the

wardens; but they and the soldiers ran around the other corner of the

prison and disappeared. They were followed at a run by the assistant

overseer of the prison, whom she knew; his coat was unbuttoned. From

somewhere policemen appeared, and people came running.

The wind whistled, leaped about as if rejoicing, and carried the broken,

confused shouts to the mother's ears.

"It stands here all the time."

"The ladder?"

"What's the matter with you then? The devil take you!"

"Arrest the soldiers!"

"Policeman!"

Whistles again. This hubbub delighted her and she strode on more boldly,

thinking, "So, it's possible--_he_ could have done it!"

But now pain for her son no longer entered her heart without pride in

him also. And only fear for him weighed and oppressed her to

stupefaction as before.

From the corner of the fence opposite her a constable with a black,

curly beard, and two policemen emerged.

"Stop!" shouted the constable, breathing heavily. "Did you see--a

man--with a beard--didn't he run by here?"

She pointed to the garden and answered calmly:

"He went that way!"

"Yegorov, run! Whistle! Is it long ago?"

"Yes--I should say--about a minute!"

But the whistle drowned her voice. The constable, without waiting for an

answer, precipitated himself in a gallop along the hillocky ground,

waving his hands in the direction of the garden. After him, with bent

head, and whistling, the policemen darted off.

The mother nodded her head after them, and, satisfied with herself, went

home. When she walked out of the field into the street a cab crossed her

way. Raising her head she saw in the vehicle a young man with light

mustache and a pale, worn face. He, too, regarded her. He sat slantwise.

It must have been due to his position that his right shoulder was higher

than his left.