Mother | Page 9

but for some reason
very sternly:

"I am reading forbidden books. They are forbidden to be read because
they tell the truth about our--about the workingmen's life. They are
printed in secret, and if I am found with them I will be put in prison--I
will be put in prison because I want to know the truth."
Breathing suddenly became difficult for her. Opening her eyes wide she
looked at her son, and he seemed to her new, as if a stranger. His voice
was different, lower, deeper, more sonorous. He pinched his thin,
downy mustache, and looked oddly askance into the corner. She grew
anxious for her son and pitied him.
"Why do you do this, Pasha?"
He raised his head, looked at her, and said in a low, calm voice:
"I want to know the truth."
His voice sounded placid, but firm; and his eyes flashed resolution. She
understood with her heart that her son had consecrated himself forever
to something mysterious and awful. Everything in life had always
appeared to her inevitable; she was accustomed to submit without
thought, and now, too, she only wept softly, finding no words, but in
her heart she was oppressed with sorrow and distress.
"Don't cry," said Pavel, kindly and softly; and it seemed to her that he
was bidding her farewell.
"Think what kind of a life you are leading. You are forty years old, and
have you lived? Father beat you. I understand now that he avenged his
wretchedness on your body, the wretchedness of his life. It pressed
upon him, and he did not know whence it came. He worked for thirty
years; he began to work when the whole factory occupied but two
buildings; now there are seven of them. The mills grow, and people die,
working for them."
She listened to him eagerly and awestruck. His eyes burned with a
beautiful radiance. Leaning forward on the table he moved nearer to his
mother, and looking straight into her face, wet with tears, he delivered

his first speech to her about the truth which he had now come to
understand. With the naivete of youth, and the ardor of a young student
proud of his knowledge, religiously confiding in its truth, he spoke
about everything that was clear to him, and spoke not so much for his
mother as to verify and strengthen his own opinions. At times he halted,
finding no words, and then he saw before him a disturbed face, in
which dimly shone a pair of kind eyes clouded with tears. They looked
on with awe and perplexity. He was sorry for his mother, and began to
speak again, about herself and her life.
"What joys did you know?" he asked. "What sort of a past can you
recall?"
She listened and shook her head dolefully, feeling something new,
unknown to her, both sorrowful and gladsome, like a caress to her
troubled and aching heart. It was the first time she had heard such
language about herself, her own life. It awakened in her misty, dim
thoughts, long dormant; gently roused an almost extinct feeling of
rebellion, perplexed dissatisfaction--thoughts and feelings of a remote
youth. She often discussed life with her neighbors, spoke a great deal
about everything; but all, herself included, only complained; no one
explained why life was so hard and burdensome.
And now her son sat before her; and what he said about her--his eyes,
his face, his words--it all clutched at her heart, filling her with a sense
of pride for her son, who truly understood the life of his mother, and
spoke the truth about her and her sufferings, and pitied her.
Mothers are not pitied. She knew it. She did not understand Pavel when
speaking about matters not pertaining to herself, but all he said about
her own woman's existence was bitterly familiar and true. Hence it
seemed to her that every word of his was perfectly true, and her bosom
throbbed with a gentle sensation which warmed it more and more with
an unknown, kindly caress.
"What do you want to do, then?" she asked, interrupting his speech.
"Study and then teach others. We workingmen must study. We must

learn, we must understand why life is so hard for us."
It was sweet to her to see that his blue eyes, always so serious and stern,
now glowed with warmth, softly illuminating something new within
him. A soft, contented smile played around her lips, although the tears
still trembled in the wrinkles of her face. She wavered between two
feelings: pride in her son who desired the good of all people, had pity
for all, and understood the sorrow and affliction of life; and the
involuntary regret for his youth, because he did not speak like
everybody else, because he