MOTHER

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