True, various strands within the revolutionary movement are illustrated by, for example, the differences between Vlasov and his comrades and Rybin, but the novel does not concern itself at all with such vital questions for the time as, for example, the organization of revolutionary work. Yet, since the narrative is recounted through the consciousness of Vlasov’s mother, who can certainly be considered one of those Lenin referred to as lacking political awareness, this is perfectly reasonable. The eponymous heroine’s response to her son’s fellow revolutionaries is emotional – indeed, at times sentimental – and in many cases maternal; she comes to espouse her son’s cause, not through a belief in any detailed ideology, but through her belief in him personally and her desire to ensure that the work for which he must suffer should not have been in vain. And her maternal concern extends to the other young men and women with whom he associates, “the children”, as she calls them, whom she envisages marching through the world towards a better society and a better life. The naivety of the passages where her feelings and thoughts in this vein are expressed is at times reminiscent of the faith in youth’s ability to change the world that so coloured the 1960s and can again be justified artistically by the heroine’s simplicity. Through her son and his comrades she is ushered into a new world of truth and goodness that contrasts starkly with the violence and brutality of the patriarchal domestic regime of her late husband and, by extension, of the patriarchal regime of the autocracy. The mother’s initially strong religious faith gradually evolves into a more generalized trust in the victory of goodness, now represented less by the church than by the revolutionaries she had once feared. Nonetheless, the themes of faith, self-sacrifice and rebirth that run through the novel combine with the central mother-son relationship to lend The Mother a strong Christian resonance. It would be intriguing to know what Lenin thought of this feature of Gorky’s work and, indeed, of the inspiration found by its young revolutionary in the image of Christ on the road to Emmaus.

Readers of The Mother may well recall Gorky’s autobiographical work Childhood, with the juxtaposed figures of the cruel grandfather and saintly grandmother who bring up the future writer. For in the novel, too, a contrast can be drawn between the kindness emanating from the maternal figure, influenced by the teachings of Christ, and the harshness that predominates beyond her limited sphere of influence in the world ruled by men. It is certainly notable that the fathers depicted, mostly tangentially, in The Mother are largely unsympathetic and often rejected by their offspring (or their wives), while the characters share a general longing for maternal love and all find warmth and solace in the company of Vlasova, the mother.

The selfless goodness of almost all the novel’s revolutionaries was not, of course, reflected in the real world of socialist revolution – the “realism” of Socialist Realism was perhaps its most unrealistic feature – and Gorky’s relationship with the world of politics became an often strained and difficult one after 1917, when the struggle for power pushed aside all romanticized socialist ideals. A consistent creator in his fiction of heroic idealists, Gorky actually wrote no further novels about politics after The Mother, a fact which in itself suggests his true creative aspirations lay elsewhere, perhaps even in this most politically influential of fictional works. Despite the novel’s history, then, maybe The Mother is not so much about politics at all.

– Hugh Aplin, 2015

The Mother

Part One

I

Every day above the workers’ settlement the factory siren quivered and roared in the smoky, oily air, and, obedient to the call, out into the street from the small grey houses there ran, like frightened cockroaches, morose people who had as yet been unable to refresh their muscles with sleep. They walked in the cold gloom down the unpaved street towards the tall, stone cells of the factory, and it awaited them with indifferent certainty, lighting the muddy road with dozens of greasy square eyes. Mud squelched underfoot. The hoarse exclamations of sleepy voices rang out, coarse abuse tore angrily through the air, while towards the people floated other sounds – the heavy commotion of machines, the grumbling of steam. Morose and stern loomed the tall black chimneys, rising above the settlement like fat sticks.

In the evening, when the sun was setting, and its red rays shone wearily on the houses’ window panes, the factory would toss the people out from its stone depths like waste slag, and again they would walk down the streets, smoke-begrimed, black-faced, spreading the sticky smell of machine oil through the air and with their hungry teeth shining. In their voices now there was the sound of animation and even joy – the penal servitude of labour was over for the day, and waiting at home were dinner and rest.

The day had been swallowed by the factory, and the machines had sucked as much strength as they needed from men’s muscles. The day had been expunged from life without trace, each man had taken one more step towards his grave, but he could see not far ahead of him the pleasure of rest, the joys of the smoky tavern, and he was content.

On days off people would sleep until about ten o’clock, then the solid and married ones would dress in their best clothes and go to hear the Liturgy, criticizing youngsters on the way for their indifference to the church. From church they would return home, eat pies and go back to bed again until evening.

Tiredness which had accumulated over years deprived men of their appetite, and in order to eat they would have a lot to drink, irritating their stomachs with the sharp burning of vodka.

In the evening they would stroll lazily around the streets, and anyone who had galoshes put them on, even if it was dry, and if they had an umbrella they carried it with them, even though the sun might be shining.

Meeting with one another, they would talk about the factory, about the machines, and criticize the foremen: they talked and thought only about things connected with work. Solitary sparks of clumsy, impotent thought barely glimmered in the boring monotony of their days. Returning home, they would quarrel with their wives and often beat them, not sparing their fists. The youngsters sat in taverns or organized parties at each other’s homes; they played accordions, sang smutty, ugly songs, danced, used foul language and drank. Exhausted by labour, men got drunk quickly, and in every breast an incomprehensible, morbid irritation was awakened. It demanded an outlet. And grasping tenaciously at every opportunity to discharge this alarming feeling, people threw themselves upon one another over trifles with the animosity of beasts. Bloody fights broke out. At times they ended in serious mutilation, occasionally in murder.

Most of all in people’s relations there was a sense of watchful malice, and it was just as chronic as the incurable tiredness of their muscles. People were born with this sickness of the soul, inheriting it from their fathers, and it accompanied them like a black shadow to the grave, prompting them during their lives to a series of deeds, repellent in their aimless cruelty.

On days off, youngsters would arrive home late at night in ripped clothing, covered in dirt and dust and with battered faces, boasting with malicious delight of the blows inflicted upon their comrades, or else insulted, in a rage or in tears of resentment, drunk and wretched, unhappy and offensive. Sometimes lads were brought home by their mothers or fathers.