Mother | Page 7

and thought
disjointedly:
"It seems it's too early for me. Others drink and nothing happens-- and I
feel sick."

Somewhere from a distance came the mother's soft voice:
"What sort of a breadgiver will you be to me if you begin to drink?"
He shut his eyes tightly and answered:
"Everybody drinks."
The mother sighed. He was right. She herself knew that besides the
tavern there was no place where people could enjoy themselves;
besides the taste of whisky there was no other gratification.
Nevertheless she said:
"But don't you drink. Your father drank for both of you. And he made
enough misery for me. Take pity on your mother, then, will you not?"
Listening to the soft, pitiful words of his mother, Pavel remembered
that in his father's lifetime she had remained unnoticed in the house.
She had been silent and had always lived in anxious expectation of
blows. Desiring to avoid his father, he had been home very little of late;
he had become almost unaccustomed to his mother, and now, as he
gradually sobered up, he looked at her fixedly.
She was tall and somewhat stooping. Her heavy body, broken down
with long years of toil and the beatings of her husband, moved about
noiselessly and inclined to one side, as if she were in constant fear of
knocking up against something. Her broad oval face, wrinkled and
puffy, was lighted up with a pair of dark eyes, troubled and melancholy
as those of most of the women in the village. On her right eyebrow was
a deep scar, which turned the eyebrow upward a little; her right ear, too,
seemed to be higher than the left, which gave her face the appearance
of alarmed listening. Gray locks glistened in her thick, dark hair, like
the imprints of heavy blows. Altogether she was soft, melancholy, and
submissive.
Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks.
"Wait, don't cry!" begged the son in a soft voice. "Give me a drink."

She rose and said:
"I'll give you some ice water."
But when she returned he was already asleep. She stood over him for a
minute, trying to breathe lightly. The cup in her hand trembled, and the
ice knocked against the tin. Then, setting the cup on the table, she knelt
before the sacred image upon the wall, and began to pray in silence.
The sounds of dark, drunken life beat against the window panes; an
accordion screeched in the misty darkness of the autumn night; some
one sang a loud song; some one was swearing with ugly, vile oaths, and
the excited sounds of women's irritated, weary voices cut the air.
Life in the little house of the Vlasovs flowed on monotonously, but
more calmly and undisturbed than before, and somewhat different from
everywhere else in the suburb.
The house stood at the edge of the village, by a low but steep and
muddy declivity. A third of the house was occupied by the kitchen and
a small room used for the mother's bedroom, separated from the kitchen
by a partition reaching partially to the ceiling. The other two thirds
formed a square room with two windows. In one corner stood Pavel's
bed, in front a table and two benches. Some chairs, a washstand with a
small looking-glass over it, a trunk with clothes, a clock on the wall,
and two ikons--this was the entire outfit of the household.
Pavel tried to live like the rest. He did all a young lad should
do--bought himself an accordion, a shirt with a starched front, a
loud-colored necktie, overshoes, and a cane. Externally he became like
all the other youths of his age. He went to evening parties and learned
to dance a quadrille and a polka. On holidays he came home drunk, and
always suffered greatly from the effects of liquor. In the morning his
head ached, he was tormented by heartburns, his face was pale and dull.
Once his mother asked him:
"Well, did you have a good time yesterday?"

He answered dismally and with irritation:
"Oh, dreary as a graveyard! Everybody is like a machine. I'd better go
fishing or buy myself a gun."
He worked faithfully, without intermission and without incurring fines.
He was taciturn, and his eyes, blue and large like his mother's, looked
out discontentedly. He did not buy a gun, nor did he go a-fishing; but
he gradually began to avoid the beaten path trodden by all. His
attendance at parties became less and less frequent, and although he
went out somewhere on holidays, he always returned home sober. His
mother watched him unobtrusively but closely, and saw the tawny face
of her son grow keener and keener, and his eyes more serious. She
noticed that his lips were compressed in a peculiar manner, imparting
an odd