Mother. Максим Горький
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must make a stand, not for the kopeck, but for justice. What is dear to us is not our kopeck, because it's no rounder than any other kopeck; it's only heavier; there's more human blood in it than in the manager's ruble. That's the truth!"
The words fell forcibly on the crowd and stirred the men to hot responses:
"That's right! Good, Rybin!"
"Silence! The devil take you!"
"Vlasov's come!"
The voices mingled in a confused uproar, drowning the ponderous whir of the machinery, the sharp snorts of the steam, and the flapping of the leather belts. From all sides people came running, waving their hands; they fell into arguments, and excited one another with burning, stinging words. The irritation that had found no vent, that had always lain dormant in tired breasts, had awakened, demanded an outlet, and burst from their mouths in a volley of words. It soared into the air like a great bird spreading its motley wings ever wider and wider, clutching people and dragging them after it, and striking them against one another. It lived anew, transformed into flaming wrath. A cloud of dust and soot hung over the crowd; their faces were all afire, and black drops of sweat trickled down their cheeks. Their eyes gleamed from darkened countenances; their teeth glistened.
Pavel appeared on the spot where Sizov and Makhotin were standing, and his voice rang out:
"Comrades!"
The mother saw that his face paled and his lips trembled; she involuntarily pushed forward, shoving her way through the crowd.
"Where are you going, old woman?"
She heard the angry question, and the people pushed her, but she would not stop, thrusting the crowd aside with her shoulders and elbows. She slowly forced her way nearer to her son, yielding to the desire to stand by his side. When Pavel had thrown out the word to which he was wont to attach a deep and significant meaning, his throat contracted in a sharp spasm of the joy of fight. He was seized with an invincible desire to give himself up to the strength of his faith; to throw his heart to the people. His heart kindled with the dream of truth.
"Comrades!" he repeated, extracting power and rapture from the word. "We are the people who build churches and factories, forge chains and coin money, make toys and machines. We are that living force which feeds and amuses the world from the cradle to the grave."
"There!" Rybin exclaimed.
"Always and everywhere we are first in work but last in life. Who cares for us? Who wishes us good? Who regards us as human beings? No one!"
"No one!" echoed from the crowd.
Pavel, mastering himself, began to talk more simply and calmly; the crowd slowly drew about him, blending into one dark, thick, thousand-headed body. It looked into his face with hundreds of attentive eyes; it sucked in his words in silent, strained attention.
"We will not attain to a better life until we feel ourselves as comrades, as one family of friends firmly bound together by one desire – the desire to fight for our rights."
"Get down to business!" somebody standing near the mother shouted rudely.
"Don't interrupt!" "Shut up!" The two muffled exclamations were heard in different places. The soot-covered faces frowned in sulky incredulity; scores of eyes looked into Pavel's face thoughtfully and seriously.
"A socialist, but no fool!" somebody observed.
"I say, he does speak boldly!" said a tall, crippled workingman, tapping the mother on the shoulder.
"It is time, comrades, to take a stand against the greedy power that lives by our labor. It is time to defend ourselves; we must all understand that no one except ourselves will help us. One for all and all for one – this is our law, if we want to crush the foe!"
"He's right, boys!" Makhotin shouted. "Listen to the truth!" And, with a broad sweep of his arm, he shook his fist in the air.
"We must call out the manager at once," said Pavel. "We must ask him."
As if struck by a tornado, the crowd rocked to and fro; scores of voices shouted:
"The manager! The manager! Let him come! Let him explain!"
"Send delegates for him! Bring him here!"
"No, don't; it's not necessary!"
The mother pushed her way to the front and looked up at her son. She was filled with pride. Her son stood among the old, respected workingmen; all listened to him and agreed with him! She was pleased that he was so calm and talked so simply; not angrily, not swearing, like the others. Broken exclamations, wrathful words and oaths descended like hail on iron. Pavel looked down on the people from his elevation, and with wide-open eyes seemed to be seeking something among them.
"Delegates!"
"Let Sizov speak!"
"Vlasov!"
"Rybin! He has a terrible tongue!"
Finally Sizov, Rybin, and Pavel were chosen for the interview with the manager. When just about to send for the manager, suddenly low exclamations were heard in the crowd:
"Here he comes himself!"
"The manager?"
"Ah!"
The crowd opened to make way for a tall, spare man with a pointed beard, an elongated face and blinking eyes.
"Permit me," he said, as he pushed the people aside with a short motion of his hand, without touching them. With the experienced look of a ruler of people, he scanned the workingmen's faces with a searching gaze. They took their hats off and bowed to him. He walked past them without acknowledging their greetings. His presence silenced and confused the crowd, and evoked embarrassed smiles and low exclamations, as of repentant children who had already come to regret their prank.
Now he passed by the mother, casting a stern glance at her face, and stopped before the pile of iron. Somebody from above extended a hand to him; he did not take it, but with an easy, powerful movement of his body he clambered up and stationed himself in front of Pavel and Sizov. Looking around the silent crowd, he asked:
"What's the meaning of this crowd? Why have you dropped your work?"
For a few seconds silence reigned. Sizov waved his cap in the air, shrugged his shoulders, and dropped his head.
"I am asking you a question!" continued the manager.
Pavel moved alongside of him and said in a low voice, pointing to Sizov and Rybin:
"We three are authorized by all the comrades to ask you to revoke your order about the kopeck discount."
"Why?" asked the manager, without looking at Pavel.
"We do not consider such a tax just!" Pavel replied loudly.
"So, in my plan to drain the marsh you see only a desire to exploit the workingmen and not a desire to better their conditions; is that it?"
"Yes!" Pavel replied.
"And you, also?" the manager asked Rybin.
"The very same!"
"How about you, my worthy friend?" The manager turned to Sizov.
"I, too, want to ask you to let us keep our kopecks." And drooping his head again, Sizov smiled guiltily. The manager slowly bent his look upon the crowd again, shrugged his shoulders, and then, regarding Pavel searchingly, observed:
"You appear to be a fairly intelligent man. Do you not understand the usefulness of this measure?"
Pavel replied loudly:
"If the factory should drain the marsh at its own expense, we would all understand it!"
"This factory is not in the philanthropy business!" remarked the manager dryly. "I order you all to start work at once!"
And he began to descend, cautiously feeling the iron with his feet, and without looking at anyone.
A dissatisfied hum was heard in the crowd.
"What!" asked the manager, halting.
All were silent; then