“Disperse!”
“What sort of talking is going on?”
“Who’s speaking?”
The people scowled1, giving way to the horses unwillingly2. Some climbed up on fences; raillery was heard here and there.
“They put pigs on horses; they grunt3: ‘Here we are, leaders, too!’” resounded4 a sonorous5, provoking voice.
The Little Russian was left alone in the middle of the street; two horses shaking their manes pressed at him. He stepped aside, and at the same time the mother grasped his hand, pulling him away grumbling6:
“You promised to stick to Pasha; and here you are running up against the edge of a knife all by yourself.”
“I plead guilty,” said the Little Russian, smiling at Pavel. “Ugh! What a force of police there is in the world!”
“All right,” murmured the mother.
An alarming, crushing exhaustion7 came over her. It rose from within her and made her dizzy. There was a strange alternation of sadness and joy in her heart. She wished the afternoon whistle would sound.
They reached the square where the church stood. Around the church within the paling a thick crowd was sitting and standing8. There were some five hundred gay youth and bustling9 women with children darting10 around the groups like butterflies. The crowd swung from side to side. The people raised their heads and looked into the distance in different directions, waiting impatiently.
“Mitenka!” softly vibrated a woman’s voice. “Have pity on yourself!”
“Stop!” rang out the response.
And the grave Sizov spoke11 calmly, persuasively12:
“No, we mustn’t abandon our children. They have grown wiser than ourselves; they live more boldly. Who saved our cent for the marshes13? They did. We must remember that. For doing it they were dragged to prison; but we derived14 the benefit. The benefit was for all.”
The whistle blew, drowning the talk of the crowd. The people started. Those sitting rose to their feet. For a moment the silence of death prevailed; all became watchful15, and many faces grew pale.
“Comrades!” resounded Pavel’s voice, ringing and firm.
A dry, hot haze16 burned the mother’s eyes, and with a single movement of her body, suddenly strengthened, she stood behind her son. All turned toward Pavel, and drew up to him, like iron filings attracted by a magnet.
“Brothers! The hour has come to give up this life of ours, this life of greed, hatred17, and darkness, this life of violence and falsehood, this life where there is no place for us, where we are no human beings.”
He stopped, and everybody maintained silence, moving still closer to him. The mother stared at her son. She saw only his eyes, his proud, brave, burning eyes.
“Comrades! We have decided18 to declare openly who we are; we raise our banner to-day, the banner of reason, of truth, of liberty! And now I raise it!”
A flag pole, white and slender, flashed in the air, bent19 down, cleaving20 the crowd. For a moment it was lost from sight; then over the uplifted faces the broad canvas of the working people’s flag spread its wings like a red bird.
Pavel raised his hand — the pole swung, and a dozen hands caught the smooth white rod. Among them was the mother’s hand.
“Long live the working people!” he shouted. Hundreds of voices responded to his sonorous call. “Long live the Social Democratic Workingmen’s Party, our party, comrades, our spiritual mother.”
The crowd seethed21 and hummed. Those who understood the meaning of the flag squeezed their way up to it. Mazin, Samoylov, and the Gusevs stood close at Pavel’s side. Nikolay with bent head pushed his way through the crowd. Some other people unknown to the mother, young and with burning eyes, jostled her.
“Long live the working people of all countries!” shouted Pavel.
And ever increasing in force and joy, a thousand-mouthed echo responded in a soul-stirring acclaim22.
The mother clasped Pavel’s hand, and somebody else’s, too. She was breathless with tears, yet refrained from shedding them. Her legs trembled, and with quivering lips she cried:
“Oh, my dear boys, that’s true. There you are now ——”
A broad smile spread over Nikolay’s pockmarked face; he stared at the flag and, stretching his hand toward it, roared out something; then caught the mother around the neck with the same hand, kissed her, and laughed.
“Comrades!” sang out the Little Russian, subduing23 the noise of the crowd with his mellow24 voice. “Comrades! We have now started a holy procession in the name of the new God, the God of Truth and Light, the God of Reason and Goodness. We march in this holy procession, comrades, over a long and hard road. Our goal is far, far away, and the crown of thorns is near! Those who don’t believe in the might of truth, who have not the courage to stand up for it even unto death, who do not believe in themselves and are afraid of suffering — such of you, step aside! We call upon those only who believe in our triumph. Those who cannot see our goal, let them not walk with us; only misery25 is in store for them! Fall into line, comrades! Long live the first of May, the holiday of freemen!”
The crowd drew closer. Pavel waved the flag. It spread out in the air and sailed forward, sunlit, smiling, red, and glowing.
“Let us renounce26 the old world!” resounded Fedya Mazin’s ringing voice; and scores of voices took up the cry. It floated as on a mighty27 wave.
“Let us shake its dust from our feet.”
The mother marched behind Mazin with a smile on her dry lips, and looked over his head at her son and the flag. Everywhere, around her, was the sparkle of fresh young cheerful faces, the glimmer28 of many-colored eyes; and at the head of all — her son and Andrey. She heard their voices, Andrey’s, soft and humid, mingled29 in friendly accord with the heavy bass30 of her son:
“Rise up, awake, you workingmen!
On, on, to war, you hungry hosts!”
Men ran toward the red flag, raising a clamor; then joining the others, they marched along, their shouts lost in the broad sounds of the song of the revolution.
The mother had heard that song before. It had often been sung in a subdued31 tone; and the Little Russian had often whistled it. But now she seemed for the first time to hear this appeal to unite in the struggle.
“We march to join our suffering mates.”
The song flowed on, embracing the people.
Some one’s face, alarmed yet joyous32, moved along beside the mother’s, and a trembling voice spoke, sobbing33:
“Mitya! Where are you going?”
The mother interfered34 without stopping:
“Let him go! Don’t be alarmed! Don’t fear! I myself was afraid at first, too. Mine is right at the head — he who bears the standard — that’s my son!”
“Murderers! Where are you going? There are soldiers over there!” And suddenly clasping the mother’s hand in her bony hands, the tall, thin woman exclaimed: “My dear! How they sing! Oh, the sectarians! And Mitya is singing!”
“Don’t be troubled!” murmured the mother. “It’s a sacred thing. Think of it! Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn’t perished for his sake.”
This thought had flashed across the mother’s mind all of a sudden and struck her by its simple, clear truth. She stared at the woman, who held her hand firmly in her clasp, and repeated, smiling:
“Christ would not have been, either, if men hadn’t suffered for his sake.”
Sizov appeared at her side. He took off his hat and waving it to the measure of the song, said:
“They’re marching openly, eh, mother? And composed a song, too! What a song, mother, eh?”
“The Czar for the army soldiers must have,
Then give him your sons ——”
“They’re not afraid of anything,” said Sizov. “And my son is in the grave. The factory crushed him to death, yes!”
The mother’s heart beat rapidly, and she began to lag behind. She was soon pushed aside hard against a fence, and the close-packed crowd went streaming past her. She saw that there were many people, and she was pleased.
“Rise up, awake, you workingmen!”
It seemed as if the blare of a mighty brass35 trumpet36 were rousing men and stirring in some hearts the willingness to fight, in other hearts a vague joy, a premonition of something new, and a burning curiosity; in still others a confused tremor37 of hope and curiosity. The song was an outlet38, too, for the stinging bitterness accumulated during years.
The people looked ahead, where the red banner was swinging and streaming in the air. All were saying something and shouting; but the individual voice was lost in the song — the new song, in which the old note of mournful meditation39 was absent. It was not the utterance40 of a soul wandering in solitude41 along the dark paths of melancholy42 perplexity, of a soul beaten down by want, burdened with fear, deprived of individuality, and colorless. It breathed no sighs of a strength hungering for space; it shouted no provoking cries of irritated courage ready to crush both the good and the bad indiscriminately. It did not voice the elemental instinct of the animal to snatch freedom for freedom’s sake, nor the feeling of wrong or vengeance43 capable of destroying everything and powerless to build up anything. In this song there was nothing from the old, slavish world. It floated along directly, evenly; it proclaimed an iron virility44, a calm threat. Simple, clear, it swept the people after it along an endless path leading to the far distant future; and it spoke frankly45 about the hardships of the way. In its steady fire a heavy clod seemed to burn and melt — the sufferings they had endured, the dark load of their habitual46 feelings, their cursed dread47 of what was coming.
“They all join in!” somebody roared exultantly48. “Well done, boys!”
Apparently49 the man felt something vast, to which he could not give expression in ordinary words, so he uttered a stiff oath. Yet the malice50, the blind dark malice of a slave also streamed hotly through his teeth. Disturbed by the light shed upon it, it hissed51 like a snake, writhing52 in venomous words.
“Heretics!” a man with a broken voice shouted from a window, shaking his fist threateningly.
A piercing scream importunately53 bored into the mother’s ears — “Rioting against the emperor, against his Majesty54 the Czar? No, no?”
Agitated55 people flashed quickly past her, a dark lava56 stream of men and women, carried along by this song, which cleared every obstacle out of its path.
Growing in the mother’s breast was the mighty desire to shout to the crowd:
“Oh, my dear people!”
There, far away from her, was the red banner — she saw her son without seeing him — his bronzed forehead, his eyes burning with the bright fire of faith. Now she was in the tail of the crowd among the people who walked without hurrying, indifferent, looking ahead with the cold curiosity of spectators who know beforehand how the show will end. They spoke softly with confidence.
“One company of infantry57 is near the school, and the other near the factory.”
“The governor has come.”
“Is that so?”
“I saw him myself. He’s here.”
Some one swore jovially58 and said:
“They’ve begun to fear our fellows, after all, haven’t they? The soldiers have come and the governor ——”
“Dear boys!” throbbed59 in the breast of the mother. But the words around her sounded dead and cold. She hastened her steps to get away from these people, and it was not difficult for her to outstrip60 their lurching gait.
Suddenly the head of the crowd, as it were, bumped against something; its body swung backward with an alarming, low hum. The song trembled, then flowed on more rapidly and louder; but again the dense61 wave of sounds hesitated in its forward course. Voices fell out of the chorus one after the other. Here and there a voice was raised in the effort to bring the song to its previous height, to push it forward:
“Rise up, awake, you workingmen!
On, on, to war, you hungry hosts!”
Though she saw nothing and was ignorant of what was happening there in front, the mother divined, and elbowed her way rapidly through the crowd.
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收听单词发音
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1
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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9
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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11
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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12
persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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14
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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17
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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19
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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20
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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21
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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22
acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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23
subduing
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| 征服( subdue的现在分词 )； 克制； 制服； 色变暗 | |
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24
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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25
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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26
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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28
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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29
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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30
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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31
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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32
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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33
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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34
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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35
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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36
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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37
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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38
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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39
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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40
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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41
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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42
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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43
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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44
virility
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| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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45
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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46
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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47
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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48
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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49
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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50
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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51
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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52
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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53
importunately
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54
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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55
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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56
lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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57
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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58
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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60
outstrip
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| v.超过，跑过 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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