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Mother By: Maksim Gorky (1868-1936) |
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by Maxim Gorky PART I
CHAPTER I
Every day the factory whistle bellowed forth its shrill, roaring,
trembling noises into the smoke begrimed and greasy atmosphere of the
workingmen's suburb; and obedient to the summons of the power of steam,
people poured out of little gray houses into the street. With somber
faces they hastened forward like frightened roaches, their muscles
stiff from insufficient sleep. In the chill morning twilight they
walked through the narrow, unpaved street to the tall stone cage that
waited for them with cold assurance, illumining their muddy road with
scores of greasy, yellow, square eyes. The mud plashed under their
feet as if in mocking commiseration. Hoarse exclamations of sleepy
voices were heard; irritated, peevish, abusive language rent the air
with malice; and, to welcome the people, deafening sounds floated
about the heavy whir of machinery, the dissatisfied snort of steam.
Stern and somber, the black chimneys stretched their huge, thick sticks
high above the village. In the evening, when the sun was setting, and red rays languidly
glimmered upon the windows of the houses, the factory ejected its
people like burned out ashes, and again they walked through the
streets, with black, smoke covered faces, radiating the sticky odor of
machine oil, and showing the gleam of hungry teeth. But now there was
animation in their voices, and even gladness. The servitude of hard
toil was over for the day. Supper awaited them at home, and respite. The day was swallowed up by the factory; the machine sucked out of
men's muscles as much vigor as it needed. The day was blotted out from
life, not a trace of it left. Man made another imperceptible step
toward his grave; but he saw close before him the delights of rest, the
joys of the odorous tavern, and he was satisfied. On holidays the workers slept until about ten o'clock. Then the staid
and married people dressed themselves in their best clothes and, after
duly scolding the young folks for their indifference to church, went to
hear mass. When they returned from church, they ate pirogs, the
Russian national pastry, and again lay down to sleep until the evening.
The accumulated exhaustion of years had robbed them of their appetites,
and to be able to eat they drank, long and deep, goading on their
feeble stomachs with the biting, burning lash of vodka. In the evening they amused themselves idly on the street; and those who
had overshoes put them on, even if it was dry, and those who had
umbrellas carried them, even if the sun was shining. Not everybody has
overshoes and an umbrella, but everybody desires in some way, however
small, to appear more important than his neighbor. Meeting one another they spoke about the factory and the machines, had
their fling against their foreman, conversed and thought only of
matters closely and manifestly connected with their work. Only rarely,
and then but faintly, did solitary sparks of impotent thought glimmer
in the wearisome monotony of their talk. Returning home they quarreled
with their wives, and often beat them, unsparing of their fists. The
young people sat in the taverns, or enjoyed evening parties at one
another's houses, played the accordion, sang vulgar songs devoid of
beauty, danced, talked ribaldry, and drank. Exhausted with toil, men drank swiftly, and in every heart there awoke
and grew an incomprehensible, sickly irritation. It demanded an
outlet. Clutching tenaciously at every pretext for unloading
themselves of this disquieting sensation, they fell on one another for
mere trifles, with the spiteful ferocity of beasts, breaking into
bloody quarrels which sometimes ended in serious injury and on rare
occasions even in murder. This lurking malice steadily increased, inveterate as the incurable
weariness in their muscles. They were born with this disease of the
soul inherited from their fathers. Like a black shadow it accompanied
them to their graves, spurring on their lives to crime, hideous in its
aimless cruelty and brutality... Continue reading book >>
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